Strange Fruit
by Perfectly Censored
Summary: 1941: She never wanted to be a gangster. Never wanted to live the life of broken fingers and frozen lockers. How many skulls has she smashed? How many eyes laid raptured has she seen? She never wanted to be a gangster. Then again, she never wanted to fall in love with Brittany either.
1. Blue Smoke

**Chapter 1: Blue Smoke**

_Southern trees bear a strange fruit_

**September 18, 1941**

The smoke is like a blanket, twisting against the soft, dim light. Blaine stands behind the high counter, his hands worrying over the glass, polishing it to near perfection. He's a sharp young man, wiry frame and perfect black hair, the crinkle around his eyes sometimes left checked at the door. There are no more bullets here but the shots of vodka he sneaks behind the bar when no one's looking. No more clouds of orange but of the smoke drifting from the cigarette tips. He worries the glass round and round, perfecting the imperfect. Not like anyone could tell, not in a place like this where each has their own trouble, each has their own haunt. She sits at the bar, her legs crossed, a glass of dark liquid in front of her. It's unbecoming to be in such a place, but she can't help it. There's an allure, one that had mesmerized her the second she smelled the cigarette smoke.

It's a dive, a little hole in the wall that she had happened to pass by one night, the sweet sounds of jazz bleeding through the thick New York air. There are seven tables, a long bar and never more than five patrons at one time. The lights are dim, the smoke thick, so no one bothers her. The stage is nothing more than a different colored floor, lamps placed along the edge, an old worn down piano sitting against the back wall. It's out of tune and some of the keys don't work, but the musicians make due. Everyone makes due, now.

The boys had just returned from one war, and now there's another breaking out. She never could understand such senselessness. She lifts the glass to her lips, pausing to take in the aroma. What would it be like to live under the sea. She wonders if it would be like this, where the pressure in the room is nearly suffocating, the darkness maddening. Where music worbles around you, the smokey tunes caught between swift breaths.

"Well," the bartender sets his glass down, drawing a cig from his pocket, the stick dangling out of the corner of his mouth like a hook. She turns her head towards him, brown eyes made black in the thickness of the room. Santana Lopez has been coming here for weeks now, sitting in the same place, ordering the same drink. He thinks she's beautiful, with dark hair, twisted against the side of her head, revealing the smooth curve of her neck, the red of her dress contrasting perfectly against the darker tones of her flesh. "What's in it today, Miss Santana?"

She gives him a cool stare, swirling the liquid in her glass. It sloshes against the curved edges. The hard edge of her jaw tells him everything. He shrugs his shoulder, pulling a match book from under the counter, striking one of the sticks against the bar top. The sudden flare infects her eyes with a dark smolder and he can't tell if she's inclined to speak to him, or if she finally has had enough to drink for the night. He brings the flame towards his face, cupping his smoke with his hand.

The glass is between her lips again, her throat moving with the slide of alcohol. Lipstick is left on the rim of the glass, staining it a dark red in the form of her lips. He smiles at her after taking a long drag, his smoke distinct against the rest for a couple of seconds before assimilating. She places the glass back down upon the counter top. He carries the best bourbon in the county. Just the right amount of burn. Just the right amount to forget. The wailing crescendo of a trumpet cuts between them like a knife, the cat slick, she thinks, her eyes drawn towards the stage. "Horrible," she growls, her voice raspy, thick with the natural smoke in her throat. The bartender takes another drag, his eyes glassy.

"Why you here then?" He leans, his boyish frame pressed long and lean. He slicks his hair down, the sheen reflecting the dim light. He gives her another smile, ashes falling on counter tops, peppering the wood with cinders quick to die.

"Not for the company." She shoots him a hostile stare, but his smile doesn't fade. Why can't he just leave her alone? She folds her arms over her chest, her left eyebrow quirked, daring him to speak again. It's a nightly routine, she's noticed. One where he'll laugh at her quip, push up against the bar and pull a dark bottle from the shelf. He'll pour her another glass, even though she has yet to finish the first, and then he'll tap the counter top saying this one's on him. It happens every night.

Santana can already feel the warmth around her neck, budding into her cheeks. Her vision is a little skewed, her muscles twitching along her spine. But she can handle it. Santana Lopez can handle anything. She stares down at him, waiting, surprised he still leans against the bar, his lips lose around the stick. He sucks in another breath, his eyes lazing closed.

"Ya know," he taps the rim of her glass. "You can talk to me. I'm the bartender, what better person to talk to?" In honesty, he just wants to see her say more than a sharp one liner. She's a curious thing, entering every night with a guy wearing dark shades and black suit. He always sits three seats down, orders a bowl of shelled peanuts and waits. He picks at them until she's ready to leave, when he follows her out the door, he gives the bartender a curt nod. There is business in his face, business that reflects in her own as she watches the other patrons, voices low. She never speaks to anyone. Never applauds the performances. Never moves a muscle, aside from drinking her drink.

"A bartender with a stupid cut. Who did it for you, the man who lives under the bridge?" She flicks invisible dirt off of the bar, a sour look crossing her features.

"Isn't he blind?" He smooths his hair, looking taken aback. Blaine thinks himself smart with a crisp white shirt and silk red bow tie, but somehow she makes him second guess himself.

"Is he?" Her fingers curl tighter around the glass, her knuckles paling. For the life of her, she couldn't figure out what he wanted.

"Listen Miss Santana," He begins, pushing himself away from the bar. He reaches beneath the counter and produces a glass identical to the one she holds. "Whatever is ailing you, it's got to be serious." He turns, grabbing the dark bottle, just as she knew he would. "I mean, you come in here more often than Edgar," he motions towards a man in the back corner, wearing an old army uniform, the green faded almost into grey. His eyes are sad and downcast, looking deep into his glass. She knows he lost a leg during the war. The Great One. He couldn't be more than forty five. Blanie had told her the story before.

She keeps her lips thin as she turns back to the young man, waiting to take the free drink he offers. The glass is still empty, his dark eyes staring hard at her. She scoffs, wrinkling her nose, her glass raised to her lips. The aroma of the bourbon mixes with a musk lingering upon her fingers. Guilt settles, the liquid knocked back against her throat. What did he know anyway?

"Save it," she holds a hand up to him before he can continue any more.

"What are you so afraid of, Miss Santana?" He's far more perceptive than he lets on, she would give him that. The man in the dark suit shifts and her attention is drawn there. He nods his head towards the door. A gentleman enters, dapper in dress, removing a cap. His dark eyes scan the other patrons, finally resting upon her. He gives her a wolfish grin, but she can see the rage laced behind hidden malice. Blaine can as well.

The man in the suit stretches and stands, positioning himself between her and the gentleman, boredom stretched along his face. The gentleman makes to move by the other, reaching his hand towards her arm. "I don't think that's very smart." Her mans voice is rough, hand clamped around the gentlemen's wrist. Santana turns her attentions back towards Blaine, shaking her freshly emptied glass at him. A coolness settles around her eyes.

"Do you know who I am?" He wrenches his wrist from the man in the suit.

"Look at that, Puck," she begins, glancing over her shoulder as fresh liquid is poured into her glass. "A dog that can talk. Blessed be the stars, I think we've found our turn to fame." She gives the dapper gentleman a sly grin over her shoulder.

"You!" He fumes, spittle flying from his mouth, resting indignantly upon his chin. "You bitch!" She lets out a sigh, rolling her eyes.

"How original."

"You don't realize what you done, Santana Lopez," he's lunging against the man in the dark suit now, his thick arms easily detaining him. An expression of boredom continues to plague his features. Christ, couldn't she drink in peace without someone coming in and yelling at her? She supposes that would be too much to ask.

She turns fully in her chair, watching as he flails madly within Puck's arms. The smoke in the air seems to become thicker, rolling around her in waves. It casts an eerie shadow behind her, the gentleman's rage quickly forgotten. His brown hair disheveled, he untangles himself, straightening his jacket, knuckles white. He looks the part, his lips turned down into an extreme scowl, chin held high. He's trying to be taller and intimidating, but honestly, it just makes him look ridiculous.

"Tell me then, what did I do?" She feels acid rising in her throat, her lips twitching. Puck gives her a small glance and she can feel the sympathy there in his eyes. Her knuckles get whiter the longer she holds the glass, to the point where he's concerned that it might start to fracture. She grates her teeth, patience lost.

"I-it's not something to discuss in-"

"Then leave." She begins sliding her body back into the same position as it was before, her glass clutched, Blaine notes, in her hands. He doesn't know what to say to her, instead placing a cigarette upon the counter top in front of her. He'd never seen her smoke, but it was worth a shot. She stares down into the glass, smoke rolling from her shoulders. She wonders if this is what it would be like to live down in the sea. It's a silly idea. Reserved for silly girls in silly dresses.

"Atilio will hear about this humiliation, Santana Lopez. I will see you burn." She hears the shuffle of feet, the snarl of a man defeated. The door opens, the cool autumn breeze brushing against her skin. He won't stand by his threat. He's a coward, that one. Unease settles on her shoulders, a feeling she just can't shake. What if he did go to her family? She chooses to ignore the shake in her joints and the lump in her throat, favoring instead more alcohol.

The man in the suit now sits next to her, his face inclined towards her, his peanuts in front of him. He gives her a small pat on the shoulder, her body rolling forward with the sentiment. She would never admit it, but she liked him. He gives her a boyish grin, breaking the business that had settled in his eyes.

"I never knew St. James to be so bold. 'Why Santana Lopez, what have you done?'" He's mocking the man, clutching his chest as a woman would. A smile threatens to spread across her lips, but she holds it back, her muscle twitching instead. "A right bastard he is. Thinking he can come in here and mess with you." Blaine looks back and forth between them, uncomfortable.

"What was that about?"

"Oh the shit thinks just because he ain't married means he owns the whole litter of bitches." Puck throws his arms in the air, his eyebrows crinkled tightly. "Little prick should right know who he's addressing before he lets his mouth run wild." The bartender pulls a fresh glass from beneath the counter and places it before the young man in the suit.

"What'd you do to piss him off, then? Taste one of his girls?" Blaine asks, mirth in his eyes. Santana shoots him a glare, one that dares him to say more. His voice catches in his throat. He turns back towards the bottles, looking for something to give his new found, what's more, _talkative_ friend Puck.

"Me? No way. I wouldn't be caught dead touching his girls. They're full of nasty little diseases, them incurable ones that addle the brain. Santana thou-" He's interrupted by a swift kick to the shin, her eyes dripping venom. He mouths _Ow_, rubbing his leg, face twisted into a childish scowl. Smugly, she sips at her drink.

"Oh ho ho? What's this? Miss Santana!" Blaine turns, ready for the gossip. He's leaning against the bar top, a smile on his face, hoping to finally break through that icy exterior.

"She thinks they ain't sick, is all."

"_Puck_," her voice is low. She sucks against her teeth, her ears on fire from drink.

"What'll you have?" Blaine motions to the empty glass.

"Beer, nancy!" Puck's smiling now, the first time since they started coming here. Santana growls deep in her chest, rounding upon him.

"And what good are you going to be to me if you're lying dead drunk in a ditch?" She snatches the glass away from him, her own fingers beginning to feel numb.

"Oh Santana, one drink ain't gonna harm! I always watch you get plastered and I have to sit there eatin' them damn peanuts and I'm tired of it!" He makes to grab the glass back but is met with her other hand coming down a top his head.

"Are you the one in charge here? No." She holds the glass further away from him.

"Why can't he have a drink, Miss Santana. This is a bar, it's sad that a man escorts a beautiful lady like yourself every night and has to stay sober three seats away," Blaine says, motioning towards the now vacant seat.

"I like to watch him suffer." She places the glass further away, balancing it precariously upon the edge of the bar.

"Don't be such a tramp, Santana." Puck has his arms crossed.

"Eat you're damn nuts before I find them and crush them, Puck." She takes another swig of her drink. Her chest burns, guilt hiding within her eyes. She just won't let them see. They sit in silence for another half hour, but she notices the look Blaine is giving Puck. The way that his eyes beg the question, the way Puck shrugs his shoulders, eyes rolling. She turns her head away, towards the stage, a young woman striking up song softly. Her teeth bite down upon the inside of her cheek, her stomach twisting as she listens, fingers clasped tightly around the glass still.

There's nothing new in the song. Nothing that hasn't already been said. Yet, Santana finds her gaze locked with that of the sultry green eyes twinkling against the abrasive light. Watches the lips form words, full and drawn, moving in harmony with a throat still pink with fresh heat. The melody, whispers on her neck, draw up the hairs, her drink forgot. She can smell the woman on stage. Can already taste the sweat and tears she's shed trying to get to this moment. Maybe that's the drink. She tears her eyes away, looking down into the glass, her own scowl staring up at her. She feels the need to convulse. To wrench out everything. To burn it.

Instead, she sips at her drink, the burn once again reminding her.

Blaine turns to Puck, whispering beneath the din of the room so that she might not hear. "What is wrong with her?"

"There's this fella," Puck starts, but is interrupted.

The door opens again, this time, five men in suits entering, their eyes all trained upon her, the smooth barrels of their guns leveled towards the bar. Her breath catches in her throat, she chooses to ignore them, instead placing her glass down onto the bar top and standing. Her knees buckle, but she refuses to allow herself to sway. Santana Lopez can handle anything.

He's up in a second, his pistol drawn, pointed towards the intruders one at a time. Heart leaping, he stands close to her, a cool sweat beginning to take hold of his body. He wants to see her. She knew that this would come, eventually. Rat bastard St. James made good on his promise. Quick work. She holds her breath, moving out from behind the man in front of her. They had to find her eventually, right? All good things must eventually come to an end. And like strange fruit, she dangles from a wire high in the trees where everyone watches.

Look and watch her fall.

* * *

Brittany S. Pierce had woken one morning in the small twelve by ten white room. She still isn't sure how she got there, considering she went to sleep in her bed at home the night previous, but she chalked it up to her memory. Her daddy had always said that she was lacking. She stares up at the now familiar ceiling, the white paint peeling back to reveal the dark grey of the ceiling bricks underneath. She likes to make meaning out of them. The two just above the watermark next to her tiny window, those look like a face with hollowed eyes and a mouth with lips that melt to the left.

It's lonely here and she doesn't much like it, but Simon keeps telling her that she's sick. That she needs to stay here in order to get better. Every time he visits, the face in the wall gets sadder. There isn't much in this room, save for her small bed, barely able to contain her long legs and restless sleeping. There's another bed opposite hers, but she suspects it's never been used. Everything is white, which is boring, but sometimes they let her put the pictures she draws on the walls. She doesn't fancy herself a Pinocchio, but she thinks that Aristotle would be proud. At least she can bring reds and blues and yellows and greens to live on paper stuck to her wall with a bit of stucky.

The doctors tell her a lot of things, mostly things like "you're just confused," but she doesn't really see herself as such. Perhaps they're the confused ones and that's why they need to write everything down on their papers. They've been talking to her for days. For months. For years. Is it years? Brittany can't tell. She's seen snow fall outside her window, when she was pretty sure it was supposed to be summer and has felt the swelter of August in the dead of December. Maybe the snow is shreds of mattresses, maybe the heat added sauce to her carrots, again she can't tell.

Simon is supposed to come and see her today. He said that he would. She smiles lazily, staring into the eyes of her watermarked friend, nodding her head. "He'll come," she says, her back flat against the mattress. "Maybe he'll bring a friend." Her voice is distant and listless, her eyes dropping back towards the other corner of the room. She isn't a stupid girl, she's just different. A hurt begins to well in her chest as she sits herself up onto her bed. The nurses tell her otherwise. Dr. St. James tells her otherwise.

She had been sitting in his office two days prior, her hair pulled back nicely, her clothes (colorful) pressed neatly. She'd overheard some people say that yellow doesn't go with magenta as she had picked her blouse and skirt previously, but she didn't really care what they said. They didn't know that yellow loved magenta and that magenta had once told yellow that it would never hurt yellow. It didn't matter because only she was privy to that conversation. It didn't matter because those other patients didn't know that green was jealous of yellow. They didn't know that their colors were sad and despondent. She didn't have the heart to tell them.

Dr. St. James had been sitting at his desk, his eyes scanning a file. He wore a white coat, his lips set into a firm frown as he read over his previous notes. She liked his office. There were pictures of elephants and the deep African jungles, pictures of Irish castles and Germanic villages. She wanted to go someday. She wanted to touch a lion and feel how soft its fur was. Simon always insisted that they would have fur courser than Lord Tubbington's, but she always argued stating that there was more of it, so it should be softer. He didn't like it when she spoke of such nonsense. Her fingers brushed her cheek, eyes quickly darting away from the elephants.

"Good morning, Brittany," he had said, finally putting the papers aside and picking a pen from his pocket. He smiled at her, his brown hair falling against his forehead like feathers, his face trying to appear trustworthy. She had returned his smile with her own.

"Good morning." He couldn't have been more than a couple years older than her. Perhaps this was some sort of game.

"How are you feeling today?"

She wrung her hands before answering, trying best to describe her feelings. "Watermarked." He paused, writing something down onto his piece of paper. He gave it a moment of consideration, his face drawn into a look of concern.

"What does that mean?" He tapped the pen on top of the paper, looking back up at her.

"It means what it means, Dr. St. James. I feel watermarked." By the way he wrote on the paper, she knew that she had said something wrong. The smile fell from her lips, her teeth beginning to worry at the bottom one.

"Why don't you tell me what you did yesterday?" His smile had returned, but she could see the strain in his jaw.

"Well, I ate breakfast in the morning, because I'm told you can't eat breakfast at night, which doesn't really make all that much sense considering it shouldn't matter what sorts of food you eat when and at what time. I had some eggs, but they looked a little pink and tasted a little more like ham than eggs, but the sign had read eggs, so it couldn't have been anything other than that, rather." Simon had told her that if she could start remembering better, then she would get to go home. "Then I went to morning therapy with Quinn and she told me that I looked really nice. We talked about things that have been bothering me, mostly about Lord Tubbington, since I'm pretty sure he's started getting mixed up in some gang related activities as of late, he reads too much of the news. After that, I ate lunch and it was alright, but I'm starting to think that they're putting too much sauce when they make our food because I got really warm after that. Then it was time for arts, which is my favorite part of the day. I made some more pictures to put on my wall, since I'm trying to be better. Then I went to bed."

She hadn't gone to bed. She looked down, her gut twisting at her lie. She pulled her blouse down over her wrist, blue eyes tantamount with anxiety. "I've remembered everything, Dr. St. James. I'm getting better. Can I go home with Simon next he comes to see me?" The cold hands of apprehension gripped at her heart, turning it to ice while he finished his sentence.

"You haven't forgotten anything, Brittany? Anything at all?" He scrutinized her for what felt like days, her mouth running dry. The chill had spread to her stomach, her breath coming short. She felt dizzy.

"S-surely I'm to forget somethings. Like the second I sat to eat or which foot fell to the ground first as I crawled out of bed. Little things like that I forget…" She pulled her hands behind her back, fingers drawing the edge of her sleeve down further.

"I see," he scribbled something else down upon his paper. "What happened in crafts yesterday, Brittany?" He had spoken to her softly. He was serious and she had to tell him, but he wasn't demanding.

"N-nothing!" The lie rang hollow in her ears, her eyes beginning to sting. The doctor had let out a sigh, pulling a sheet of paper from under all of his notes. They hadn't let her keep that drawing. Quinn told her that it wouldn't go well in her room anyway. He lays it upon the table, his eyes hard and serious, the black bold letters scribbled and angry. Red screams up at her, beading up from the page as dark and thick as blood. There's a single line of it dripped diagonally across the page.

_He doesn't want you. He hates you. He isn't coming back. _

_You are alone._

The pencil had pressed so hard in her finger that it had snapped. Like a little bone it shattered, sharp splinters jagged against the grey page. Tears sprung to her eyes, fogging her vision.

"Please don't send me back, Dr. St. James." Her muscles had still been twitching from the night previous, the ache in her jaw unbearable that morning. Her skin around her wrist was still raw, beating alongside the trob of her heart. Reminding her.

"It will make you better, Brittany." He picks up the piece of paper. "All Simon wants is for you to get better so you can be a better wife. We're trying to help you." Did he believe his own words? Not a chance. Simon had asked him as a friend for this and he had agreed. Her family was loaded, her father desperate to get her a good husband since he was afraid no one would take her. The good Dr. St. James couldn't help but feel a little responsible, but business was business. He had to keep it afloat somehow.

"I-I didn't do anything." The tears began to stream down her cheeks, spearing through the red that had been collecting there. She felt hot again. "My pencil broke and all I could see were the words over and over again."

"So you tried to kill yourself?"

"No! Why would I ever-"

"Brittany the pencil was jammed-"

"But I'm not unhap-"

"Quinn saw it!" He burned, his eyes dark. Her eyebrows crinkled, a crease forming between them. Why would she do anything like that? She was trying to get better, not trying to die. She pulled her hands back out from behind herself, staring down at the lines in her palm, staring at the creases made in the bandage. Funny how similar they were.

"But I don't want to die, Dr. St. James."

"And I don't want you to die. I want you to talk to me, so that way I can help you." He looked sincere.

"They're words." She motioned towards the paper, the tips of her fingers numb. "Words can cut too."

"But you wrote them. Why would you write them if you knew they were going to hurt?"

"They aren't mine." She shrugged, a pain beginning to beat behind her eyes.

"How? You wrote them, didn't you?" He was on the edge of his seat, knuckles white. He had to keep her here, it was all part of the deal. If she fell into madness, then he wouldn't have to make things up anymore. She had always been a little bit touched.

"He wrote them." She rubbed the back of her hand against her nose, the bright bandaged wrapped around her wrist a stark contrast against her skin.

"But Simon wasn't there, he was at home, praying for the day he'd have a healthy wife who could come home and take care of him, just as he has taken care of you." He gave her his best smile, but she had always thought that he looked a little creepy when he squinted his eyes and flashed his teeth. She wasn't sure if he wanted to eat her or puke. It had put her on edge.

It still put her on edge, her bare feet flat against the cool ground of her room. Her wrist still burned, stitches pulling against her tender flesh. They had put her in here and taken away what little belongings she had, in case she fashioned a weapon out of one of them. A nurse had been sitting outside of her room the entire night. She'd heard them call it "Wack Watch." She wishes she knew what a wack is.

Outside of her window, it smells like rain, condensation gripping lightly to the pane of glass, bullets sliding down, causing streaks against it. She can barely see through it, her nose reaching the sill only when she stands on her tip toes. She brings a pad of her finger and draws a line down, making her own river amongst the fog. The bricks are cool against her heated flesh, her muscles tight in her stomach. There's something calming in the rain, the way it patters against the ground outside, the freshness it adds to the air. She glances at the empty bed opposite her own, a frown tugging on her lips. They'd told her that no one deserved to be stuck with her. At least some of the other patients had. She doesn't understand their hostility. Doesn't understand why they look at her the way they do when she talks to them.

A brisk knock on the door has her head whirling, a smile lighting her face. He's supposed to come and see her today. He told her that he would. She shoves her feet into the slippers provided, smoothing the corners of the same yellow blouse she had worn to her meeting with the doctor a few days previous. The door creaks open, weight in the hinges, a petite blonde woman standing in the door. Brittany always thought Quinn pretty, with perfect skin and perfect nose. She motions towards the hallway and she steps out, wafting the scent which she thinks is her favorite. Quinn always smells of the clean of soap and promise of a good meal.

"Good morning, Brittany." Quinn's green eyes sparkle, her lips rose colored, her fingers grasping more papers to her chest.

"Quinn!" It's a short and quick greeting before she falls in line behind the other woman. They never really speak much, but Brittany likes her all the same. She's never mean and she always has a smile ready to give her. The nurse leads her through the corridors, the white walls peeling in places, much like her room, the chill of autumn beginning to set into her bones. It makes her feel alive, the way the warmth drains from flesh. The way her breath manifests when she's allowed outside.

They move past the activities room, books placed behind locked cabinets, cards neatly stacked within another. Three couches sit positioned around a low table where most will sit and talk to one another when allowed. She likes to draw there best, sitting on the orange couch that she suspects is made out of gooseflesh. It tickles the bare skin when you sit on it, scratching when you move. It faces the large windows, all looking out over the field below. The grounds are kept green, though she does wish that the leaves would stay on the trees instead of moving to the ground. Don't they get cold?

Eventually, Quinn leads her towards the eating hall, little tables set up with groups of five chairs settled around each. The nurse motions towards one of the tables, other patients already waiting. Brittany sets herself down, a toothy grin, her position that closest to the window. The gravel of the main drive is damp with the rain still falling, the smell over powering here. She can hear songs in the droplets, can see a waltz as they splash against the windows. She closes her eyes and waits.

Quinn sits in the corner of the room, looking sadly at the girl next to the window, blue eyes scanning. Waiting. She's only worked at Dalton for five months, but she can't help but feel sorry each day the blonde sits staring out the window. She always looks so sad, like she's searching for meaning in the clouds that are painted above them. It blankets the blue, Brittany had once told her, so that way the sky doesn't get cold. But she's scared, scared that someday, the other blonde will have to face the truth and will come to the same realization that they all must at one point or another. The sky is already cold.

It's proven in the way she sits at the table, a rose to her cheek. Just one more minute, until that minute turns into an hour and that hour turns into the next. The other patients hug their loved ones and leave one by one. Its dark outside by the time Brittany stands from her seat, her eyes downcast. Quinn stays. Always stays until she's ready to leave. She stands now, moving towards the girl, offering her some food left over from the dinner she so clearly missed.

"Next time," Brittany says, smiling up at her. The laughter is never far from those blue eyes. "Next time he'll come for sure, Quinn. He must have just forgot."

But Quinn knows. She'll wait and wait and wait. And Simon?

Simon will never come.

* * *

"_Siéntate_, _nieta_." He sits within his parlor, a glass of wine clasped in his hand, the red liquid still. Shelves of books line the walls, a fire crackling within the confines of the stone place, the flames dancing, casting an eerie shadow against the walls. It smells of cigars and old books, a smell Santana has taken to associate with him.

His eyes look tired, the bags underneath them adding more darkness to the already vast void. Her stomach turns. Her grandmother stands at his side, her features hard, jaw set in a tight line, hair pulled back into a perfect bun, the pearls dangling around her neck reflecting the dance of fire. Her lips are thin, thinner than Santana has ever seen before. Puck is at her side, his hands folded neatly in front of himself, his eyes downcast. The man before her motions towards the chair sitting across from him, urging her to sit again.

Cautiously, she does as is asked, wary of the five man escort which has been provided. Her stomach begins twisting, a burn kindling in the back of her throat. It's not because of the alcohol.

"Yes?" Her voice sounds so much more certain than she feels. She tries to hold her chin high, but she feels as though she's been caught doing something wrong. Rubbing her hands against the material of her dress, she hopes to mask her guilt.

"Where were you, Santana?" Her grandmother speaks, the older man opening his mouth to let out a sigh. Looking over to her, he shakes his head, but allows the question to stand.

"She was at Cat's Cradle, sir," one of the men pipe up. She shoots a glance over her shoulder, blood beginning to simmer.

"I can speak for myself." He grows ridged, jaw snapping shut.

"_Again_? _Nieta, _how many times do I have to tell you. That is no place for a Lopez," her grandmother says, arms thrown into the air. "Let alone a lady!"

"A lady, _abuela_? I'm tired of this cat and mouse game. I'm a grown woman, where I chose to spend my evenings should be of no concern to you." She crosses her arms.

"Santana!" Her grandfather's eyes darken, the liquid in his glass rippling slightly. "That is no way to speak to her. We are merely concerned for your well being!"

"Well being? Well being?!" She stands now, her skin beginning to flush a deep red.

"I will not have you turn harlot!" The other woman has leveled her finger now, waggling it as she approaches, stopping only when she stands toe to toe with the slightly taller woman.

"I haven't don-"

"What am I supposed to think when you come home reeking of sex and booze!"

"Will you-"

"You are a Lopez, Santana! We have to have standards! Your _papi_ has arranged so many nice young men for you to suit, but you scorn every one of them. If you're going to be going out every night and fucking the rest of the red district, then you shouldn't be allowed to call yourself a Lopez!" She's grown red in the face. Santana's breath hitches, a passion growing in her own eyes.

"I'd rather fuck a herd of donkeys than be in a family where grand daughters are nothing more than sacks of meat, moving from one place to another. Where a mother can offer up her own son for the betterment of the family and do _nothing_ as she watches him pull the trig-" A palm stings against her cheek, her head whipping around. Eyes wide, she stares deeply into her grandmothers, the venom almost infectious. "As she watches him pull the trigger, the note burned to ashes in the fire. What did it say, _abuela_? What did that note say?"

"You think this is funny, Santana? Your Uncle is _dead_."

"Does it look like I'm laughing?"

"That is enough." Atilio "The Spaniard" Lopez lowers his glass, placing it upon the rich end table next to the morning paper. People have seen her come and go there, or else he would have let the matter rest. But they simply can't afford to allow this to become a spectacle. His father always taught him that once the public can see it, so can the police. And once the police see it, they'll never stop watching. It's not a matter of freedom, but rather a matter of safety. A matter of love.

"_Nieta_," he begins, grabbing his wife by her other wrist, trying to get them to calm down. "You are a beautiful woman and I understand that you want to live your life, but you have to understand, what you do does have consequences. We just want you to be safe and happy." There's unspoken threat in his eyes, his jaw clenched tightly.

"_Abuelo_, I can't sit in this house and listen to you and _papi_ talk about the things men are want to do. I can't be like _mami_ and shackle myself to the first man who offers to buy me a rose. It's ridiculous." So much drama, she thinks, moving towards the fireplace. She watches the fire dance, the heat licking across her skin.

"And what do you do every night, huh? A new horn player or the same one?" The words hurt more than the slap.

"You don't know what I do."

"I don't? Are you so sure?" Atilio feels the situation leaving his grasp. If this were to become public, it would be a mockery of the family. Of his family.

"I go to the same bar, order the same thing, drink two drinks, and then leave, _abuela_." It's not entirely untrue. Too bad she was just beginning to enjoy her buzz when she was taken away.

"Do you know who came to me this evening, Santana?" Her grandfather speaks, the paper in his hand. He scans the words unceremoniously, a grim expression upon his face. The headline, bold and abrasive, screams up at her **'The Spaniard Acquitted for 33 Counts of Murder.'** It's final. It's definite. "St. James. Jesse St. James," he says, his voice disinterested. Her stomach sinks, blood freezing in her veins. So the little rat had made good on his promise.

"What did a cretin like him want?" She rubs her hands together, wishing she would have been able to wash them before coming into their presence. Memories of kisses on her neck make her skin prickle, a lump stuck in her throat.

"He told me the most peculiar thing and I need you to tell me, _nieta_, that it's not true." He places the paper down again, the vastness of his eyes deepening. They know. It's all she can think as she sinks back down into the chair, sweat beginning to form along her spine. What was she supposed to say? That she was drunk and thought her for that horn player? That she was out of her senses? Did it for the family? That didn't make any sense.

She notes the tears beginning to form in the corner of her grandmothers hardened eyes. The way the older woman's jaw tightens, her fingers wringing around themselves. What is she supposed to say to a woman who has already lost so much? Bitterness sweeps over, drowning the guilt. Her muscles tighten, eyes locked with her grandfather.

"Were you with another woman?" The words fall from his lips and Santana feels her world pull sideways. She's not breathing, a silence falling over the room, deafening them all. The silence is their answer. It's the only other thing that need be said. She doesn't hear her grandmother's screams, doesn't feel the tears rushing down her cheeks because she doesn't have any left.

She feels fingers wrap around her arms. They'll leave a bruise, but that's nothing. Dark eyes watch and wait through the blue smoke filling the sitting room. His smile is wolfish and filled with rage.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Here it is. I'd like to thank you for reading and hopefully you enjoyed it. I'd also like to thank my favorite and long time beta **Swinging Cloud **because without her rad-ness I definitely wouldn't be back in business. Oh also: My Spanish is rusty at best, so if I ever misspell something or do something crazy, just let me know. Just don't be mean about it, I haven't had to speak it in seven years.


	2. Her Face Painted by Moonlight

**Warning: This chapter may contain triggering or intense material. PM me if you need to know the origin of said trigger and I'll get back to you, no questions asked.**

* * *

**Chapter 2: Her Face Painted by Moonlight**

_Blood on the leaves_

**__****September 19, 1941**

"Hello." His teeth look sharp illuminated by the low lamp in his study. Santana sits in a chair, her red dress crumpled, hair disheveled. She's sure she's a lovely sight to see. Blinking rapidly, she looks about the room, scenes of black and white staring at her, the faces of people she doesn't know smiling.

"Where am I?" she snarls through clenched teeth. There is a presence behind her, but she can't turn her head to look. Who ever it is smells strongly of menthol.

"Your new home. Don't you remember?" He motions towards the windows, the dark sky doing little to illuminate the surroundings.

"Fuck you, St. James." Her words sound unsure, tongue working sloppily to move against the roof of her mouth. This isn't right. A weight has been put upon her chest and she can feel it beginning to suffocate her. Her chocolate eyes flutter open and closed, her ears ringing with the melody still playing in the bar only an hour before. It had only been an hour, right?

"Now now, there's no need to become belligerent." He stands from behind his desk, moving to the front. His white jacket absorbs what little light there is in the room, reflecting it back painfully at her, making him look fuzzy. Making him a haze. She rolls her neck, her spine snapping like dry twigs, pain firing along her shoulders. What had happened?

He leans against the front of his desk, papers held within his hands. "I'm simply trying to help you." He's laughing at her now, his eyes flicking over her shoulder to the presence behind her. Head heavy, Santana begins looking over her shoulder when she feels fingers pressing into her cheeks. "No no no." His face is inches from her own and she smells the alcohol on his breath.

"What did you do?" Feeling begins to return in her fingers first, her vision slowly becoming less cloudy. It's hard to breathe, her ears popping.

"Only what you deserve, you right little bitch." His words are low, barely brushing against her ears. Santana isn't sure, in this instance if he's actually speaking or not. His fingers tighten along her skin forcing her jaw to slowly come unhinged. Her eyebrows knit, a snippet returning to the surface.

There were hands. Lots of hands pressing into her. She remembers the words, as if spoken underwater, the way her grandfathers eyes, desperate, beseeched the man who had walked into the room. Jesse St. James had given her that smug smirk that he wore only when he fixed something. Grandmother had been crying, screaming profanities at her, many of which she's glad were lost against the pounding of her heart.

A needle. Or was it a hammer? It pinched her skin, ice rocketing through her veins, her heart stuttering in her chest.

"I can help," Jesse had said. They were desperate enough to believe anything he said at that point. Willing to try anything.

"Fix her. Fix her or kill her trying." She would have expected it from her grandmother, but to hear it from her grandfather's mouth? The memory still burned fresh, the words resurfacing, panic beginning to lace through her eyes.

Jesse notices, pushing her back into the chair, running his fingers through his frayed hair. He turns his back to her, shoulders shaking. "What's your name?" His voice is even, but holds that hint of giddiness on the edge. He's like a child at Christmas getting everything he ever wanted, tearing through ribbons and paper, casting the pieces haphazardly on the carpet.

"Don't be stupid," she manages to roll her eyes, the feeling in her neck and head returning. It feels as though thousands of needles are poking into her flesh, her hands rubbing against her forearms attempting to assuage the sensation.

"Patient has no recollection of her name, did you hear that, Sue?" He gives her a glance out of the corner of his eye, that grin flashing in the briefest of instances. For the first time, she recognizes hands clamped down onto her shoulders, firm and strong.

"¿_Donde esta_ _abuelo_?" The shuffling of papers is her only answer.

"It's sad when they can't even remember English." He lets out a long sarcastic sigh before turning around. "So very sad." He holds a clip board in his hands, his lips set in a grim line. She growls.

"Looks like it's gotten to stage five, Doc." The voice is short and clipped, a hardness surrounding each word. It also sounds excited, the hands upon her shoulders squeezing at the prospect. "Can't we just get this little kookadillo to bed? She'll be just as crazy in the morning." There's a light tap against Santana's face, which she barely registers as a hand.

"Stage five? What? What are you talking about?" Exasperated, Santana cranes her head, her lips curled up in disbelief. A tall, blonde woman stands, her face weathered, pale eyes hard. She's seen things, Santana can tell by the way her lip curls, by the way her throat moves with a low growl, her eyes narrowing when they make contact. The short hair is a new touch, something that has been gaining popularity among the ladies, but for whatever reason, Santana feels it's more of an intimidation tactic than a fashion statement.

"I think you're right, Sue, but I did tell Atilio that I would try to help her." His face is inches away from her own again. How priceless, he thinks, that Santana Lopez sits in his chair at his mercy. He smells the bourbon on her breath, intoxicating him further, drawing him closer. His eyes list closed, lips twitching in the moment. He could do it. Could taste her and there would be nothing to stop him. She's always been beautiful, even if she was colored. Jesse St. James liked to think of himself as a connoisseur of fine wines and women and Santana Lopez was on his bucket list. Her eyes burn fierce, even through the tranquilizer he had slipped her a couple hours previous. Her dress is rumpled, enough for something deep dark to burn within the pit of his belly, reaching up like fingers to pluck behind his eyes. He could do it and no one would care. A wicked grin lights his features because Santana Lopez is his. No matter how much she protests or kicks, or screams, she's his. He twirls a loose lock of her hair through his index finger, shivering at the way the black silk rakes against his skin.

She knows what he's doing. And she knows it's going to get her into even hotter water, but goes through with it anyway. Lunging forward, the hands upon her shoulder not expecting the sudden movement, she crushes her mouth to his, teeth sinking deep into his lip. She tastes the sudden metallic of blood, soft flesh popping like grapes beneath her canines. He screams, eyes wide, his hands suddenly upon her throat delivering a quick smack.

Pain swells there, her jaw slackening enough for him to wrench himself free. Murder inks its way into her eyes as she turns her head to the side and spits his blood onto the white, plush, and what she hopes is expensive, carpet. It's not yours until you bleed on it, something _abuelo_ used to tell her when she'd scrape herself playing in the backyard. Jesse covers his mouth, thick red streams snaking its way down his forearm as it begins to pool in his palm. The white of his jacket is ruined.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did that hurt?" she sputters through catching breaths. The smug smirk she gives him infuriates him more, his arms lashing across his desk, papers falling like sheets about the room. The lamp is flung against the far window, a crack appearing in the pane, pens and pencils littering the floor like fallen soldiers.

"GET HER OUT!" He waves his arm towards the door, voice a roar. Droplets of blood fly from his fingers, landing still warm against her face. He's in hysterics, veins leaping along his neck, pulsing with heat. It would be so easy, Santana thinks, to pick up a pen and pull them all out. One by one. The hands on her arms leave and she is suddenly lifted from the chair, arms encircling her upper body. She struggles against them, trying to twist her body free from her sudden captor. "THE BATHS, SUE, THE BATHS!"

The baths? What did that mean?

She twists harder within the arms, heart hammering madly. Santana is prideful, something that she isn't exactly proud of, but not something she could entirely ignore, either. She feels indignant, as if she's being stripped to her barest, basest form and put in front of an audience. They all watch, the black and white faces. Watch her and laugh with their smiling lips and humorless eyes.

Santana Lopez has never had reason to feel dread. She's a Lopez. A Lopez fears nothing. But she fears those arms, she fears the smell of menthol, thick and sweet, the way her feet try to gain purchase upon the tiles, the cool radiating up through her legs. She fears the way the threshold of his office door gives way into a long hallway, the white walls painted perfectly, save a few places up towards the ceiling where it had peeled a little. No one looks up except those at the bottom. So no one notices.

"You kick like a regular little Mexican jumping bean. BEISTE." The Warder's calls bounce down the hallway, ricocheting like stray bullets against the hard walls. Did the corridor go on forever? Santana couldn't tell. The lights at the end were turned off, casting everything in shadow.

"SERIOUSLY? I CAN WALK!" She struggles more. Her chest and ribs begin to burn, hands pressing down hard against her sternum, making it increasingly difficult to breathe. The longer in the hold, the further the other woman drags her from the door and towards the shadows, the more dread floods Santana's senses. Her stomach twists. Maybe that's the alcohol.

"BEISTE. WE HAVE A KICKER!" The sound of footsteps pounding against tile begins to echo in the hallway. A woman the size of a bull, with curly brown hair and wide set shoulders comes into view. Santana thanks whatever higher power there may be for the decided clothing the woman wears. A tight, short sleeved blouse, nearly bursting at the stitches encircles her form, matching white pants hiding her legs from view.

Beiste's face is grim, her lips thin and long, jaw almost as broad as her shoulders. She's not what Santana would describe as pretty. A more fitting word is homely, to be nice. Beiste has her shoulder square, head hunched, looking as though she's about to tackle the both of them to the ground.

"This is ridiculous!" Santana yells, her bodying surging with energy she didn't realize she still had. She had to get away. "I haven't done anything wrong!"

"What do we got?" Beiste has taken hold of her legs under one of her arms, the other surrounding her waist.

"She's more violent than a wolverine on a tennis court. The baths, Beiste."

"He's lying!" The toughness she had built up for years begins to crumble, revealing the panic she worked so hard to hide. Tears begin to blot the edges of her vision, blood drying on her lips. "I haven't done anything. Please listen to me!"

"Ignore the magnanimous Cuban here, Beiste."

"I'm not Cuban-"

"She spouts lie after lie slowly drowning in the web she's created." Did this woman ever make sense? If it was any other situation, Santana would have questioned her phrasing. The deep brown eyes of Beiste, where she expects to find a hardened hatred, she finds a soft sympathy. The woman doesn't speak, allowing Sue to continue spouting nonsense. The words echo off of the walls.

They stop at a door somewhere in the middle of the darkness, blackness bleeding into Santana's bones. They had to believe her. Right? She was a Lopez. She hears a key turn in a lock, the sound of a door straining against poorly oiled hinges sending prickles down her spine. She can hear the soft lull of water beating against the bottom of a metal drum. She can smell the coolness in the air. It smells like a meat locker. Like thick blood frozen in red rivers against the walls, like the sound a man makes when his head is encased in a cube of ice.

The hum is unnerving.

She lets out a piercing shriek.

"It'll help!" Beiste says, struggling through her legs frantically kicking out.

"To hell with helping her!"

"We need to get her under control before she wakes everyone else up!"

"She bit Jesse!"

"What?"

"Took a chunk the—oof—" Santana rams her head into the bottom of Sue's jaw, eyes wild. Fuck this. Fuck this place. "Too bad she's nuts, would make a mean viper down in some pits."

They struggle getting her into the room, the cool metallic walls coated with thick frost, fog swirling about the room. Santana recognizes it, immediately, as a repurposed freezer. She'd been in one too many to not know. She cranes her neck to see a white porcelain tub in the center of the room, rust beginning to eat away at the legs sitting upon the ground. Straps dangle over the side, the metal clasps glinting like knives. Her face pales at the sudden realization.

"No. No! You can't do this! You can't!" She's staring down in the calm liquid. "I could die. Are you fucking insane? THIS COULD KILL ME!" Santana had never known what it felt like to be mad, but in this instance, she feels the corners of her psyche unraveling.

"It won't kill you, sweet pea—"

"You'd call a foot fungus sweet pea, Beiste." They have her lifted over the tub.

"It'll calm you down. It'll help." Beiste is offering everything that she can, but it means nothing. Means nothing when the water hits her back, soaking straight through her clothes, ripping through her like shards of glass. She lets out another shriek, her muscles convulsing tightly trying to retain the heat that she so desperately needs. It means nothing when two hands work with the straps around her upper body, cinching her in tight so she can barely move. Her teeth begin to chatter, scared that her tears will freeze to her face.

* * *

She's supposed to be sleeping, but all Brittany can do is stare up at the ceiling, that white washed ceiling. The shadows have been playing across it all night, the branches of trees rapping lightly against her window. It still smells of rain, something that she takes comfort in, her blanket pulled up high against her chin. The material is rough, but she likes it. It reminds her of her father's growing stubble when he used to hug her, the way it turns her face from red to white in an instant. That might not be such a good thing, Quinn had once mentioned. She might be allergic to some of the soap that they use, but Brittany doesn't really care.

She hears a key slip into the lock on her door, the tumbler shattering the otherwise silent night. A head pokes itself in, and she recognizes it as one of the nurses with dark brown hair. Well, actually, she can't really tell if it's brown hair or if it's so brown it's black. Either way, Brittany never remembers this nurse's name; the way that her face is angular makes Brittany think she's unpleasant to look at. She thinks her voice is bossy, too. She doesn't much care for being bossed about.

"Checks." A light nearly blinds the young blonde, the illuminated brightness sweeping over the room. The shadow of the nurse nods her head, then closes the door, the key inserting itself once again. Her heart beats fast in her rib cage. Every time. She smiles at the now closed door, sitting herself up right. Normally, they wouldn't lock the door, but it was a safety precaution since the pencil incident. For one whole week.

Not that she minds. She had nowhere to go in the middle of the night anyway. She moves to her little window, standing on the tips of her toes, craning her neck to look out across the lawn. The trees shake in the wind, branches slowly becoming more skeletal with each passing day. She frowns. Nothing should ever look that skinny.

A wail echoes. Was that inside or out? Nervously, she tugs on her ear, peeking around outside once more. A car is parked down the drive, rain drops dancing in the lights, the purr of the engine deaf to her. She assumes it's running though, by the way it bounces on the gravel. Who could be visiting at this hour? Her stomach drops, tongue dry as litter.

With two strides of her legs, she's pressing herself against the door. All she can hear is the whoosh of blood in her ears and the shuffle of feet. If only she didn't have so much feet! Then she could hear through the other side of the door! She bites her bottom lip, screwing her eyes shut, her breath held in her throat until her chest burns. What if she lets it slip and she misses what he has to say to her. Surely he's here to visit her?

_He'll be disappointed_, she thinks. _I didn't wait long enough. I'm not patient enough. _

Another wail. This time she hears it bouncing around the hallway. Her eyebrows crinkle. Between the trebles, she hears the fear. The sinking feeling in her stomach enforces the idea that it's not him. That it's something else entirely. Tightness settles over her shoulders, her body flush against the door, lungs starving. She grabs little snatches of air when she dares, but so desperately needs to know. What is real and what isn't? Brittany has been asking that question for as long as she could remember. The beat in her chest. That's real. She draws a hand close to her heart, as if to remind herself.

The chill in the room. That's real. The flesh on her arms stands on end.

Simon. Real. She looks down at her left ring finger, the simple gold band smooth against her skin. Her stomach sinks. She was never sure if she actually liked him or not. Was never sure about anything, really. He came to her with a charming smile, perfect white teeth, freshly combed hair and smelling of darkness.

The smell of darkness. Not real.

Her daddy had said (daddy, real) that he was nice and he came from a family of great repute. That there was a venture to be had, but Brittany had hoped it would be one with castles and swords, not one with doctors and white coats. There isn't anything heroic, she thinks, in the way Dr. St. James speaks, or in the way the scratchy orange couch (or is it brown?) sits lonely towards the windows. There isn't anything heroic in the way the screams bounce against the walls. Or in the way they're cut off mid crescendo as if sliced by a guillotine.

Guillotine. Real.

Heroes. Not real.

Brittany draws her hand to her neck, tracing a light line along her skin, the pulse of her heart fluttering in her veins. _The poor voice_, she thinks, but not for reasons she understands. She thinks because it's stopped so suddenly. But because she knows that it'll never be able to finish, with one last push. Her ears fall, hoping to hear the crashing bravado at the end of the fanfare, but is only met with silence.

How long does she stand there, pressed against the door? She wouldn't be able to tell you.

Time. Not real.

Not under the guise of darkness, where little light seeps through her window, filtered like coffee through clouds and through stars that never seem to move. She pushes herself back from the door, her knees aching, eyes burning with sleep. How long had it been since she last closed them? Brittany moves back to her bed, drawing her knees up to her chest, ripping her attention from the all too real door and glancing back at the hollowed eyes of the water stains.

"_What're you doing_?" the eyes ask. She purses her lips tight, her knuckles paling, nails biting into her legs. _"Aren't you sad here?"_ Brittany looks away, refusing to answer. She never answers, holding onto one idea and one idea alone.

Eyes. Not real.

* * *

The sounds of footsteps drift beneath the door. Brittany had fallen asleep, her head hanging as if from a noose, forehead pressed into her raised knee. Her muscles twitch, eyelids fluttering slowly at the sound. Vaguely, she hears voices. Ones that she recognizes, but can't quite name. They're dark and gravelly, with traces of orange and hues of red. They burn, talking in hushed tones, words melting together like oil spills.

"—turned quiet."

"—can't put—"

"Peacocks."

Peacocks? Brittany sits stock still in her bed, muscles quivering at the sounds. She hadn't done anything wrong. Had she? Did she forget something again? She wasn't supposed to feed the peacocks was she? Panic swells in her chest before she can remember that there aren't any such birds on the grounds. At least not that she's seen. Did they get some new pets? Brittany always did think that they were beautiful, even if they did make the most irritating sounds. She'd have to see them in the morning. So what else could it be? She searches herself, running her hands along her body, trying to find the reason for the voices. Voices (real), but not unlike ones she had heard before. What were they doing here now? Was Simon here? Could she go home?

The tumbler in the door turns again. Should she pretend to be asleep? Or should she be awake, waiting for them? She stares blankly at her blankets, frozen in her indecision. The door creeks open, shadowed people speaking in hushed, urgent tones making their way through the room.

_Hello, Brittany_. (Not real.)

She feels fingers made of smoke trace along her jaw, eyes of shadow burning through her skull. A tongue like cool breeze lights down her throat, her eyes quickly snapping shut. _Have you been good?_ She smells musk, sweet and thick, like molasses on fresh tarmac. It sticks to the back of her throat. Not real.

Feet shuffle in the room, but Brittany isn't sure which are real and which aren't. "Pierce." The voice is harsh and nasally, as if spoken through a sneer. She tries to open her eyes, but finds that she cannot (when had she closed them?). Does she even have eyes anymore?

"Pierce." This time, it's followed by a quick jab to her ribs. She jumps, eyes flying open. Snapping to attention, Brittany sits up straight, her neck aching from its previous position. She looks the blonde haired woman square in the eye. Brittany always thought she looked like a Valkyrie and wondered if she had fallen from the sky as well.

"Leave her alone." Hands big as a ham, though Brittany suspects not as delicious, wrap around the Warder's upper arm. The smaller woman ignores the plea, shrugging out of the grasp.

"Pierce, this here is Little Miss kookadillo, straight from Cuba, Ohio," Sue jabs a thumb over her left shoulder, very nearly right into the eye of Bieste. Brittany shifts, trying to look beyond the two women. She doesn't know where Cuba, Ohio is, but quickly decides that it sounds like a fun and exotic place. A place she would really rather enjoy visiting. She catches a glimpse of something shining in the soft moon glow. The dark figure huddled upon the never-been-used mattress shifts uncomfortably. Why does she shine?

"It takes a while," she says, speaking around the two orderlies.

"Eyes up here, Crayola." Brittany finds two fingers suddenly in front of her face, drawing her gaze with them as they move towards Sue.

"B-but—"

"No buts, listen to me. She is unstable." Sue speaks slowly, as if she expects Brittany to have suddenly forgotten English (she hasn't). "If—she—starts—to—scream—ignore—her. She's—a—liar." Brittany nods her head with each word.

Wait.

What was the beginning? She scrunches her eyebrows up, wrinkling her nose, gaze drawn into the topmost corner of the room as if the words will be hiding from her there. They aren't.

"We shouldn't be doing this to her," Bieste says, obvious disdain in her voice. Brittany can't tell who she talks about, though. Herself or the smoldering shadow on the bed opposite her. She shifts trying to look around the two other ladies again, catching that same glinting glimmer. Brittany's smile widens.

"We'll be along come morning, Pierce." Sue's hand slaps down upon her shoulder, Brittany rocking from the firm contact. Her skin stings, but only lightly. The two figures exit the room, tumbler clicking back in place. She sits with her back against the wall, hugging her knee to her chest once more.

This is the first time anyone has ever been with her in this room. The prospect excites and worries Brittany as she begins to pick at the fraying hem of her topmost blanket. The fibers come loose easily enough, peeling away like the outer skin of an onion. Should she talk? She chances a glance towards the figure, watching the shoulders rise and fall, the sound of breath filling the room.

She opens her mouth, her tongue pressing against her teeth. A simple _hi_ couldn't suffice, could it? Brittany finds herself at an impasse. Should she say the wrong thing, she might upset the girl, should she say the right thing, she could still upset the girl and would be worse off than the uncomfortable silence. She snaps her mouth shut, resting her temple against her knee once more, her eyes still trained upon the shadowed figure.

The lingering smell of smoked cinnamon drafts lightly throughout her newly shared space. Is that coming from the glimmering shadow? Eyes lazy, she keeps her gaze focused, wetting her lips with her tongue. She should say something. It's impolite to keep someone awkwardly waiting. This is, well was, her room, so she should be a gracious host. Would she have to redecorate? What if the other didn't like all of her silly drawings and musing? Her throat constricts again.

A soft sniffle breaks her concentration. Brittany feels suddenly very cool, the light _drip drip drip_ of droplets upon cloth drumming lightly. The flesh on her arms raise, her smile softening towards the person across the way. _Poor thing_, she thinks. Slowly, she closes her eyes, heart pressing into her chest as she listens silently to the drums of sadness beat against the cloth.

* * *

Santana sits on the dark side of the room, where beams of moonlight don't dare tread. Her muscles twitch, breath coming short and ragged as she tries to warm herself up again. How could they do this? She wasn't sick. Her stomach sinks nearly to her toes, hands shaking as she rubs her forearms trying to speed up her circulation.

Blue eyes watch through painted moon beams, soft golden hair made ethereal in the darkness. Santana stares back, lips trembling, but throat unwilling to move. A tiny spark lights through her chest as she watches the soft curl of the woman's lips, blue eyes turning to liquid in the iris. If Santana believed in angels, she was sure that this girl would be one of them. With the way her lazy smile twitched at the corner of her mouth, her skin glowing under the dim light. The way she brushed her fingers along the blanket, as if caressing each and every thread. Santana can hear her breath, soft and sweet, mixing in the air, supplying a host of warmth beneath Santana's skin. Without looking in a mirror, Santana knows her eyes are dark, knows her cheeks are burning. Her fingers twitch lightly.

Ashamed, Santana looks away, staring straight down at the tiled floor, making out the stains that rest there under the window. There seems to be a leak problem. She glances at the window again, noticing the long straight streak separating the fog in the glass. It's a singular stroke with sweat beginning to beat up inside of it, trying to remove it like one would a scar. Santana's fingers tighten around her arms.

Droplets of water drip from her hair, pooling upon the blanket beneath her. She longs to remove her now clearly ruined dress, hoping that someone had thought to pack her at least some semblance of a bag. Searching around her bed, she finds nothing. Not even her shoes. As if remembering suddenly reminds her, Santana curls her toes, trying to draw in more heat. She lets out one sharp, chuckle, teeth chattering together.

_Great_, she thinks. Exhaustion hits her fast and hard, the smolder on her shoulders lifting its veil. She leans to her right, her sopping hair hitting the poor excuse for a pillow with a dull rustle. If she listens hard enough, Santana thinks she can hear the scurrying of little bugs in her pillow. She doesn't realize that those are her short, gasping breaths. She bites her lip, looking back towards the unmoving girl on the bed opposite, blue eyes now hidden from the world. Santana's heart sinks in her chest.

She had been hopeful. Stupidly so. Hopeful for what, she wasn't quite sure. All she wanted was to see that ocean blue painted in the stars again. Her fingers twitch, a heat rising against her neck, working its way up to her ears. She lets out another ragged sigh, curling her body tight around itself.

Santana doesn't hear the rustling of cloth. She doesn't hear feet upon tiles. She doesn't hear a small sigh. She doesn't see the other girl standing on her tip toes, drawing a fresh line down the center of the window. She doesn't see the way blue eyes, like jazz and smoke, wander over her shoulders. She doesn't feel scratchy, frayed cloth draping itself around her shoulders, or hands pressing into the curve of her back. She doesn't see the warm smile drifting against rose petal lips.

Santana doesn't see a lot of things.

But she smells sunshine. The way it permeates through skin on a hot summer day, crisping leaves and pulling color out of the endless blue sky. The endless blue like blue painted at midnight in moon beams and shadows. She clutches to herself tighter, falling into a restless, fitful sleep.

* * *

It doesn't much change from night to day, other than a grey, filtered light behind thick clouds. The rain beats heavily against the window, a deep rumble coming from over head. Eye lids heavy, Santana rolls on the bed, the scratchy blanket wrapped tightly around herself. When had that gotten there? Her chest feels heavy, as if a lead weight has taken up residence, squeezing and compressing tightly, her breaths long and labored. Had she too much to drink last night?

Santana grimaces, her tongue feeling thick like cotton, the ache in her shoulders driving deep into her bones. If she ever saw that buffoon Blaine again, she would surely have choice words with him. Head pounding, she pushes herself up, her elbows buckling under her weight. Peeling her eyes open, brilliant stars spin through her vision, making hot white streaks as she falls back to the mattress. Groaning she closes her eyes again. Her stomach rolls hungrily, though she knows she couldn't force anything down even if she wanted to. Not without being sick first.

She pulls the blanket up higher onto her shoulder, just now vaguely aware of the dampness of her bed.

"Dampness be damned," she grumbles, rolling over onto her side, facing away from the wall. Santana doesn't like the way her voice sounds, raw around the edges with a husk only given with drugs and alcohol.

"I don't think he'd really like that." The voice is soft, snaking its way down her spine to lick over her skin. Immediately, she sits bolt up right (although regretting it), her muscles burning with the sudden strain. She presses her back flat against the cool wall, the chill from last night still lingering in her bones.

Blue eyes soft.

She stands at the window, her long lean body balancing precariously upon the tips of her right foot, her other leg balanced out behind her as if she's caught in a dance. The tips of her golden hair curls, brushing along her smooth skin, which Santana thinks is probably soft as silk. Maybe even softer. Santana watches blue eyes, the girl's finger redrawing the scar in the window, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

"What?" Santana blurts, wholly unexpected. She flushes for reasons unknown. The usual steel in her voice is softened.

"Dampness." The girl shrugs her shoulder half heartedly, lowering herself from her position. Santana waits for her to continue. A careful, guarded look crosses over the girl's features. "Just because he can't say anything, doesn't mean he can't feel anything." The girl's eyebrows knit up, her index finger and thumb rubbing together gently, rolling beads of condensation between them.

"…Uh…" Santana narrows her eyes, clearing her throat. The corner of the blonde's mouth twitches, mirth reflected in her eyes. Suddenly self conscious, Santana pulls the blanket up closer to her shoulders, looking away. The blonde shrugs her shoulders once more, standing upon her toes again to look out the window, her neck craning, long and smooth, looking as graceful as any. Santana swallows.

A silence falls, though not a comfortable one. Santana looks to the left, then to the right, hoping to find anything. Anything to draw her attention away from the maddening dizziness bourbon always gives her the morning after. Chocolate brown eyes finally rest upon the girl's bed, the stark white sheets yellowing around the bottom corners. The pillow drapes over the edge at an angle, the corner barely keeping from reaching the floor. Realization dawns upon her. A lazy ghosted grin catches the corner of Santana's eye.

"O-oh." Santana shifts, withdrawing the blanket from around herself. Regretfully, she holds it out towards the blonde, willing her to take it. Lips set in a firm line, Santana refuses to meet her eye. A scream sounds somewhere in the distance, light and drifting slowly through the atmosphere. Was it normal for there to be two people in one room? She dares to glance up, blue eyes lighting with smiles.

The blonde extends her hand, reaching for the blanket. "You were like ice last night," she says.

"Gee, I wonder why," Santana says, her voice harsh and flat. Instantly she regrets it, the girl's hand barely flinching away from her own.

"I wondered that too." The ghosted smile returns to her lips, fingers hesitantly grasping the cloth. Santana's throat catches. "At first I thought it might have been those dreadful baths, but then I thought that maybe it's just you." Another shrug, the blanket falling away from Santana's hand at the movement.

Santana doesn't detect any hidden malice at the words, only hidden honey and promises of warmth. Narrowing her eyes, she runs her tongue along the inside of her teeth before replying. She feels it's necessary, but she can tell the blonde would be content either way. Her eyes flick to the stark bandages against the girls wrist, eyebrows crinkling.

"What happened?" Perhaps it's rude to inquire after someone without first introducing yourself, but Santana doesn't think that the rules of etiquette bode well in this place anyway. So she resigns herself to not either. A look unreadable crosses the girls face as she pulls her hand behind her back, the tips of her ears growing pink.

"Slipped," is all she says. Normally, Santana would say something smart and biting, but she can't find it in her heart to do so now. Probably because of the bourbon (it's not). She rubs her hands against her forearms again, much warmer than last night, but still not enjoying the sudden, biting chill of the morning.

Another scream echoes down the halls. Santana faintly hears feet slapping hard against the outside of the door. She wonders if that's how it sounded last night. Her features darken, her arms curling in further around her midsection. Heat threatens to prick at her eyes, all the disappointment and shame hitting her like a freight train. She bites the inside of her mouth, teeth threatening to pierce through her own lip this time instead of an antagonizer. The bed beside her sags, the scratch of the blanket she had just afforded once again being draped across her shoulders.

"I'm Brittany." The blonde's words plug the leaks that had previously threatened to drown Santana. She turns to look, caught by the sight of a bright smile, humor reaching into the darkest inside ring around the girl's pupil. "Oh, but a Ritz like you expects something more. Right, I've gotta remember that." It's as if the blonde is speaking to herself, making small asides and notes. Curiosity piques in Santana for the second time since her wakening.

The blonde stands, crossing one of her legs in front of the other and bowing deeply to Santana while grabbing her hand. Brittany's eyes level with the deep chocolate brown of Santana's, the latter's knuckles held to the bridge of the girl's nose. All of the disappointment and shame welling up in her stomach staunches at the ridiculousness of the situation, a sudden, mirthful laugh ripping itself from her chest. Santana brings her other hand to her forehead, pushing back some of the loose hairs that had fallen out of the twist, really hoping this time that someone had at least sent a brush.

"Santana." She nods her head, her skin squirming under Brittany's touch. Gentle hands press lightly into the back of Santana's hand leaping with life and excitement. Brittany's grin widens, bowing deeper once more before dropping Santana's hand. Santana doesn't much feel like smiling, but can't seem to stop the corner of her mouth from curling up. She hopes it doesn't look snide, because for the first time in her life, she doesn't mean to be.

"Well, Miss Santana, what's a dame like you all dolled up for, anyhow?" Brittany gently tugs on one of the red sleeves, loving the way the color streaks against Santana's skin.

"Nothing," she replies with a shrug. The smell of sunshine begins to warm her.

"You mean you go out like this every day? No wonder you smolder." Brittany drops the sleeve back in its place, motioning her hand around Santana's figure as if she's outlining her.

The scrape of key upon tumbler has Brittany jumping back, pupils dilated as she sets herself down onto her bed. She looks away gingerly hiding her wrist again. Eyebrows wrinkling, Santana watches her, confused at the sudden movement, her ears burning from what she hopes is the remnants of bourbon and not drugs. She clears her throat, allowing her eyes to finally graze over the rest of the room.

Though it seems rather sparse, a dozen or so drawings line the walls, all cornered above Brittany's bed, the colors large and drastic, though each carefully drawn. From her place on the bed, Santana can't tell if they're any good or not, or what they depict, but she's certain that it wouldn't matter either way. Outside the door, someone cusses, keys jingling and bumping against the door. Brittany has drawn her knees up close to her chest, that ghost of a smile forgotten, instead a strained edge sneaking in around her eyes.

Santana motions her head, one of her eyebrows raised high, lips mouthing around the word _what_. Brittany doesn't reply though, for the next instance, the door is open and in the door frame stands a woman Santana barely recognizes.

Out of the guise of darkness, Sue looks completely different, her skin paler than Santana would have guessed, her eyes harder and bluer too. The crisp clean white uniform fits militaristic in style, the brass buttons all polished to a crisp gleam, her belt catching what little light the grey clouds afford and reflect it back into the room to dance along the white walls. Her jaw is ridged, her arms folded in front of her, lips barely existent. Santana's eyes narrow.

"Crayola," she nods her head towards Brittany before turning back to Santana. "Mussolini." Santana blanches when Sue nods her head towards her, the Warder's face devoid of humor at the estranged name. The older woman moves into the room, a prim young blonde following hot on her heels. Brittany smiles at the younger woman, sweetly, innocently, the girl returning it to her in kind before she sets her blazing hazel eyes upon Santana.

The blonde nurse holds a bag in her hand, features harsh as a knife as she assesses the Lopez sitting on the bed. "Best not come too close," Santana starts, "Might catch something." She curls her lip up, her eyes hunks of cool coal. The young nurse doesn't look impressed. Santana crosses her arms, leaning back against the wall, watching the women out of the corner of her eye.

"Need I remind you of last night, or would you like to eat breakfast?" Sue points towards the door, the glare of white hallways and tiles haloing through the threshold. Blue like jazz catches Santana's eye, Brittany shaking her head no. Santana bites back the venom, chest swelling, an angry flush working its way up her neck. Her stomach flips.

"Good. Now your grandfather made good and sent a bag for you. Don't take too long." Sue spins on her heel and exits, the younger woman quickly side stepping to get out of her way. Door still open, the young nurse (who honestly couldn't be any older than Santana herself) places the bag upon the end of Santana's bed before she also turns, addressing Brittany.

"Did she keep you up last night, shug?" The nurses voice is nasally, but not in a horrible way like some of the men back at her father's home. No, it's actually quite nice, with just the right amount of lift upon each curtail of her sentences, smoothing it over like one would crushed velvet. Santana knows this girl could almost sell anything to anyone. With a voice like that. With eyes like that.

"Nah," Brittany replies. Santana can hear the shrug on her lips.

"I heard there was trouble, she didn't hurt you none, did she?" Santana suddenly doesn't like the way the nurse is coddling Brittany. As if she, Santana Lopez, is _el Diablo_ himself.

"She smolders, Quinn." A hidden, childish excitement peeks through Brittany's words. The nurse shoots a glance over her shoulder, a hardened look in her eye.

"Are you going to get dressed or not?" Words like knives coated with honey, Santana grabs for her bag, beginning to dig through the contents, assessing what she should wear. (Are you allowed to wear your own clothes in these sorts of places? Is this even allowed?) A plain white blouse catches her eye, her fingers running over the silk. This would have to do. Peeling her clothes away from her skin, she suddenly becomes aware of her company.

Though.

She doesn't expect that they'd allow her the decency to change without an audience. Quinn's back is still turned, but baby blues still bore into her. It's as if Brittany has never looked away and never will again. Clearing her throat, Santana throws the blanket over herself, infuriated at the humiliation she must endure all because of that blasted Jesse St. James. Her chest tightens. _He likes playing in meat lockers_, she thinks, _I'll show him a meat locker_. Her bones still breathe ice, even if her muscles have regulated themselves. Santana isn't sure if the chill shall ever slip away.

"Does your hand hurt?" Quinn is speaking again, though Santana can't see her from where she is under the blanket. She tugs the red, ruined dress off, tossing it to the floor.

"Sometimes," Brittany replies, her voice lilting and distracted. Santana shoves her arms into the blouse, fumbling with the buttons as she goes.

"Maybe I can get daddy to come and take a look at it." The way Quinn speaks to Brittany is as if she's known her all her life. Santana wonders if maybe they're related. She grabs one of the few black skirts from her bag, bowing herself under the blanket in order to shimmy it up her body. It proves harder than it looks.

"Mm." Brittany's reply this time is non committal and low, as if she doesn't care for one lick of this conversation.

At this point, Santana throws the blanket over her head, placing her feet firmly upon the tiles, her fingers working at all of the knots in her hair. She gives Quinn a hardened look. Decidedly, she doesn't like the blonde. She doesn't like anyone here (_except_). Rain patters against the window, the smell of mildew and sunshine tugging on Santana's nerves. She can hear the _click clack clock_ of the tap of a drum, the low rumble of thunder echoing over head.

She smells the static in the air, where hundreds of faces watch her, none so sad as the bright blue eyes hidden behind the golden hazel nurse.

Another shriek bounces down the hallway, keyed into the movement of madness.

* * *

**Author's Note: And here it is, the next installment. Thank you kindly for everyone who read, reviewed and gave me the time of day! It probably goes without saying that there will be quite tense and traumatic situations throughout this fic. I'll try to provide warnings and feel free to PM me as of the nature of these triggers. The last thing I want is for anyone to become upset.**

**Also, because I realize that not everyone knows everything about Jazz, the title of this fic is modeled after Billie Holliday's song of the same title. The chapter subtitles are lines from the song. Look it up, or don't, I just thought I'd let everyone know.**

**Finally, I think that this chapter needs an extra shout out for my wonderfully fantastic beta Swinging Cloud, because without her, I would have confused myself stupid with apostrophes.**


	3. Lessons

**Chapter 3: Lessons**

_blood at the root_

Hazel eyes watch her coolly, a frown tugging at the corner of the young nurse's mouth. Eyebrows screwed up, she's pointing her finger at Santana, unspoken words dying on her lips, but screaming in her iris. They stand just down the hall, barely twenty feet from the room, the lack luster tiles chilling Santana further. She's already done something wrong. Twenty feet out and she's already a rule breaker.

"Here. You have to walk here." Quinn has taken Brittany by the shoulders, pulling her five feet in front of Santana. The black haired Latina gapes.

"You can't be serious." She motions between herself and pretty blue eyes. A knot twists in her stomach. A knot that she had forgotten about.

"Yes." Quinn's reply is short, clipped, her chin raised, lips tight.

"Why?" The question both shocks and amuses Santana. Her dark eyes rest upon Brittany, her eyebrows kinked, hands wringing in front of her. Quinn's visage visibly pales, her cheeks flushing a little as she turns to address the other girl.

"I-it's not proper," she begins, words tumbling out of her mouth.

"Are we her escort?" Brittany turns excitedly towards Santana, teeth pressing through her lazy grin. "Oh, you must be a moll, Santana! They get treated special 'round here." Santana starts, uncomfortable heat rising to her cheeks, her hands tugging at the edge of her skirt. Just to have something to do. The way her name, _Santana, _foreign and exotic, had rolled off of Brittany's tongue pricks along the base of her skull, wrapping its way around her neck. Her chest burns, only because of a held breath. Quinn meets her eyes then, the nurse's arms crossed in front of her chest.

_I dare you to say something_, her eyes say, head motioning towards the oblivious white girl. What silver spoon had Brittany been born under? Let her think what she wants, Santana decides. It's less painful that way. Reality sinks slowly into Santana's skin. She's not with _abuelo_ any more. She doesn't have Puck to remind people who they're dealing with. All she has is herself.

_And bright blue eyes_.

An awkward silence folds in around them, Brittany's question left unanswered. Santana nods her head, assenting, trying to fall back into rules and paradigms that she's never had to learn. Being The Spaniard's grand daughter dissuaded most people from confronting her. That or the men in suits. Or maybe it was their guns. Either way, she spoke _no, sir _or _yes, ma'am_ to no one. Her jaw tightens.

"Understood?" Quinn's voice is tight, almost like what Santana imagined piano wires would be. She rolls her eyes, refusing to say anything on the matter. Taking this as an affirmative, Quinn turns on her heel leading them all forward once again. Her steps are as clipped and stern as she, Santana muses, watching the way her body works in tandem with itself. She narrows her eyes trying to decide if Quinn's rear is worth any consideration. She flicks her eyes to the right, watching tight, lean legs lazily strolling over the icy tiles. Long blond hair dangles nearly to her lower back, the locks, Santana imagines, soft to the touch.

A flame smolders deep within her stomach, slowly beginning to lick its way up to rest at her sternum. Santana would be a liar if she said she doesn't like the way Brittany's back curves. The way the plain purple dress hugs her hips. Santana's breath hitches. She liks the way she can see her upper thigh meet with curves, the way her throat beats lightly with her heart. No, Santana decides, Quinn isn't worth the consideration.

Blue eyes snap over her shoulder, glinting mischief dancing like firecrackers against a dark pupil. Taken aback, Santana can't push down the sudden heat across her cheeks, her heart hammering madly in her chest and at the pulse point in her throat. Mouth like cotton, she stares at the floor. At the walls. At the doors. Anywhere but at knowing electric eyes.

Caught red handed.

What should she do with her hands? Clearing her throat as if it's the most natural thing to do, Santana pushes her fingers through her hair, trying to catch any more snarls. She can feel heat radiate off of her scalp. Christ. What's wrong with her. Long fingers pointing off to the right draw her attention.

_This is the lounge_, Brittany mouths over her shoulder. Santana tears her eyes away from rose colored lips, barely registering the dilapidated orange couch and poorly varnished coffee table. Big bay windows, streaked with rain, cast spattered shadows, dappling her flesh as she passes in front of them. A shiver rakes through her body, the skeleton of a withered oak gently tapping against the glass. Bark twisted, Santana's eyes graze over the knots blackened by the rain. Sap in crystallized rivulets snake its way through the fractures and countless scars the tree has seen.

She tenses.

How long has it been standing there? How many people has it seen? How many faces? Santana's flesh prickles along her arms, the tightness around her throat convincing her to turn back towards Brittany, the blonde tilting her head, face mildly concerned. Santana shrugs her shoulders as if to say nothing, but watches as the ghosted smile drops from Brittany's lips.

"This is the sitting room," Quinn says as she leads them past. She glances back over her shoulder, ensuring no funny business is going on. Brittany whips her head around just in time, offering the hazel eyed nurse a smile, which she returns with warmth.

"Astounding," Santana mutters. _As if it could be anything else._

Pursing her lips, Quinn ignores the way her voice plateaus, obvious sarcasm dripping from the syllables. She has half a mind to round on her and send her back to the Warder. Instead she continues, "This is where most group therapies take place. Some patients prefer to take their leisure here as well."

Just towards the end of the windows, Santana spies a series of short, square tables, each equipped with two chairs. They look just about as cared for as the coffee table, with gouges on the tops, the wood splintering on the legs of the chairs. They sit a little apart in their own nook, the last of which has a small box set upon it. The sides are deep and black, silver hinges tarnished, dull in the harsh artificial light. It picks at the back of her mind.

Before she can ask, however, the over powering smell of eggs hits her. She never really did much care for breakfast. Wrinkling her nose, she averts her attention back towards Quinn, actively avoiding the blues shot her way every few seconds.

Passing through a small archway, Santana finds herself at the back of what could only be described as a literal hell. The clatter of pots and pans fill the air, a dank humidity clinging to her hair. The nauseating stench of half cooked eggs and poorly baked biscuits (probably sopping with gravy) clings to the varnish on the tiles, making them stick lightly to her feet. She's certain that if forced to inhale the very wood of any of the twelve tables, there would be the pungent stench of dirty dish water and mold.

The tables are arranged in a grid like pattern, with one center isle and walkways on either end. On the right, sit those blessed with cream colored skin, a crop of blonde hair and blue eyes fluttering at each other, their words caught in the din of eating. One woman is attempting to eat her shirt instead of her eggs, which a particularly exhausted nurse seems to be addressing. Another woman mashes her fingers into her food, as if it's something made for fun instead of for consumption. Her hair is wispy and grey, the follicles of her scalp looking beaten and bloody. Santana wonders how long she's been here. How long will she be here, in turn? She shudders at the thought.

On the left sits everyone else. The downtrodden and further forgotten dregs of society. _The others_. Santana feels her lips pull down into a frown, her arms wrapping around her midsection defensively. She lets her gaze drop upon a feeble china-girl who peers down into her bowl, as if willing for it to swallow her whole. Next to her a grim looking black woman sits, her voice loud, but incomprehensible as she speaks. Are those even words? Santana strains to listen, but can't make out anything she could possibly be saying. A woman, near the front of the mess, breaks out into wails, throwing her plate against the wall, the porcelain shattering and leaving streaks of yellow, brown, and green against the white washed walls. Two men leap upon her.

Santana pales, her stomach falling to her knees. The men wrench the woman into the air, making as if to quarter her, her body twisting in their grasp like a fish out of water. Tears stream down her face, the woman's throat cracking with her piercing wails. Santana's ears begin to ring, carrying on the high tenacity of her voice, her own hands moving to cover to protect her precious hearing.

"No," Santana hears through her flesh. "No, Adam! Adam!" The woman is ushered through a door to the left of what Santana assumes is the kitchen, her body writhing unnaturally in stilted arms. The woman's fingernails, Santana sees, are bleeding, leaving a light trail along the sleeves of the men and against the threshold of the door.

The Warder, Sue, walks between the isles invulnerable to happenings, her hawkish face drawn tight, her eyes peering down her nose, her lip curled back in disgust. A woman with shoulder length red hair passes in front of her, big brown doe eyes directed away from the ice cold blues Sue sports today. She reminds Santana of a mouse or what Snow White would be if she had red hair. And petrified eyes. "FASTER," Sue yells, her voice temporarily drowning out the clamor of pots in the back ground. The red headed woman shrinks away, jumping. She sets her food down, her body visibly shaking with the verbal abuse.

She sits at the very edge of the table, far from the other patients who have congregated around the end closest to the window. A group of four look to one in their midst for guidance. A particularly sweet looking woman (another honey blonde, just how many were there?), with crisp razor features (more so than Quinn's), and a long swan neck stares down her nose, motioning towards the red head. The woman huffs, throwing her hair about, her eyes slits just at the sheer indignation the red head seems to bring to the table.

"That's Terri," her voice is closer than what Santana expects, Brittany's breath tickling against her ear. She had almost forgotten about the blonde in her horror. Heat returns tenfold to her neck.

"Santana!" It's just Quinn. As if just Quinn isn't enough.

"What?" She snaps back. Santana jerks herself back and away from Brittany Pierce, a sheepish grin lilting on the corners of Brittany's mouth as she shrugs an apology to Santana.

Quinn descends in a matter of seconds, her finger suddenly very near the tip of her nose. "What did I tell you?"

"Oh, it's alright, Quinn," Brittany says, cutting between them. "I just thought I'd give her a proper tour." She brings a hand up to whisper behind it, but fails horribly at concealing her message. "We don't want the mob after us again."

"The mob, Brittany what—" Brittany cuts Quinn off with a sudden nod, sliding her hand (unexpectedly) down Santana's arm and twining their fingers.

"W-what do you think you're doing?" Santana breathes, panic lacing her eyes. Electricity fires along her skin, sparking and snapping up at her, biting the inside of her throat, sweat beginning to bead up along her spine. Her head swims. She tries to wriggle her fingers out from between the blonde's, but fumbles instead.

"Something wonderful." The answer is simple. As simple as can be. It's the simplest thing Santana has ever heard, holding nothing but truth and honesty. There's no dark, taciturn twist to them. No venom built up along the edges. Santana opens her mouth to try and protest again, but is suddenly lead forward, past Quinn (she'd never get tired of that shocked, fish lipped expression), and down the center isle.

The mess hall turns quiet.

* * *

She likes the way their fingers fit.

The way Santana's soft palm rubs against her own, warming even the muscles beneath her skin. The way her chest ignites when she feels fingers, long and beautiful, against her own. It's like Christmas and Independence Day all wrapped up into one. First hot, then cold. Fireworks, then snow flakes.

She tugs Santana forward, the smell of breakfast making her stomach growl, low and deep. How long had it been since she last ate? Was it really last night? Brittany can't remember. It doesn't much matter anyway. Not with smoked cinnamon feeding her senses. Brittany casts a quick glance at Santana, thrill coursing through her veins at chocolate brown eyes and heated dark flesh. She hasn't ever met anyone like her before. A woman with hair quite as black. With lips quite as plush. Brittany feels her pulse quicken before pulling Santana forward. Is this what it's like to have a friend?

"PIERCE!"

Brittany doesn't stop at the shout, only nods her head to the Warder, giving her a smile and speaking as she moves by. "Good morning, Gunnr. Have the peacock's been fed yet? I was so worried when you mentioned them last night. Hope they didn't die of fright, poor things." Sue stares after her in confusion, trying to gain her footing once again.

She doesn't notice the eyes. At least, they think she doesn't notice them. But she does. Brittany always does. They've always watched her and said things to her, things that their lips were too afraid to say. The nonexistent roar turns a pit deep within her stomach, the truth of the unspoken better left in the obliviousness. Better left for someone else to clean.

"What is she doing?" The whisper cuts the stillness of the hall. Immediately following, they all explode, some louder than others.

"Looks like Dumb Dora's got herself a new doll." (Not real.)

"I heard she's crazy." (Not real.)

"Hey…isn't that…" (Not real.)

"You know, I think you're right!" (Not real.)

"So, if you try to kill yourself, they give you your own nigger?" (Not real. Not real. Not real.)

"Always knew she was tryin' ta get me. Can' trust no white girl." (Not real.)

Not real. The ache in her wrist begins to burn, her smile pulling down along her lips. Didn't they all know if they talked like that, the walls would start to cry? She glances out the window to her right, water streaking the panes. She wonders if the peacocks are alright, jeweled beasts coveted deep within a secret place away from this room. Away from the looks. Away from fake smiles and rude eyes.

She likes Santana, so what? A woman rarely smolders. Especially in darkness. She doesn't want that to go away. Brittany feels Santana's fingers slip within her hand, her skin coated in a light sheen of sweat. Is she nervous? Glancing back, she sees Santana's eyes flash dangerously, her head whipping towards the right side of the room. The white side.

Terri, with her frantic eyes and tight lips, hasn't said a word. She just keeps an even stare. Brittany sees the bridge of flames beginning to span the length between her new roommate and the older woman, Terri's lips set in a disapproving scowl.

"Yes yes yes, what a scandal. PIERCE!" The Warder, after regaining her footing, is suddenly upon them, her left hand ripping at Brittany's right wrist. Her fingers dig through Brittany's flesh, wrenching their hands apart, the strain along Sue's neck marking it as a near impossibility. And it feels odd. Like a noose has been drawn around Brittany's heart, tightening until it threatens to rend the muscle, so it uselessly beats inside of her chest, spurting and flailing through darkened, forgotten veins. Fingers slide along her palm, and a panic begins to overtake her, but there's nothing she can do to stop it.

Something settles over Brittany's shoulders. Maybe it's a blanket made of eggshells and copper. It's sticky and heavy, making it hard for her to breathe.

"Girl, you jus' done 'n gotcher self in a whole mess o' trouble." The voice is quiet, but Brittany recognizes it.

"What do we have here? One bulldagger short of a knife set?" Sue casts a darkened glance towards Santana, her teeth glinting like fangs in the harsh overhead light. "Crayola, I can't even pretend to understand what goes on in that little lump you consider a brain, but what do you think you're doing?" Her voice gets louder with each word until she's shouting by the end. Quinn is hot on the Warder's heels, hazel eyes drawing to Brittany.

"Nothing, I wa—" Brittany pushes out, trying to stop Sue from yelling. The noose tightens, the Warder's hand like a rock slowly being lowered onto a person. Steadily crushing them.

"Whatever she damn well pleases, you two-bit tit monger," Santana retaliates, her face inches away from Sue's now. The Warder, cautious because of last night, jerks her head back, much to the shorter woman's satisfaction.

Wait.

What's a tit monger? And why is Santana yelling? …Still, what's a tit monger?

Brittany doesn't dwell on it too long, however, the pain in her arm exploding like flowers beneath Sue's grip. She tries to back away, her other hand working madly against the accosting digits.

"Sue!" Quinn is by Brittany now, also wrestling to get the grip to lighten up.

"You wanna try that again, spic?" Instinctively, Sue pulls Brittany closer, ignoring the fingers desperately working against her hands.

"Stop, Sue! Brittany!" Is this what it feels like, Brittany thinks, through stinging flesh and prickling eyes.

As if just now realizing her grip, Sue lets go of the blonde, Brittany pulling her arm in close to her chest. Quinn throws her arms protectively around her, hazel eyes relaxing.

"Why is she yelling?" she asks, desperately searching Quinn's face for her answers. "Quinn, why is she yelling like that?" But Quinn doesn't reply.

Nobody ever replies.

* * *

Those eyes. Electric in nature, magnetizing and drawing. They stop the words in her throat. The way blonde hair falls like golden leaves, dappling the white of her flesh, the way the deep blue pits swirl calmly and enticingly. The way the edge of her mouth quivers, a sheen threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes. The way her left hand wraps instinctively around her right. The way the bandages, tinged red in places, clings to her like a second skin.

Santana swallows her sentence, casting her eyes to the side. She feels the Warder's breath, coming in short, hot spurts through her nostrils, as if she's a cat in heat. It's what she lives for, Santana realizes. This sort of confrontation. She doesn't back down. Santana Lopez never backs down. _But you're not Santana Lopez anymore_. The chilling reminder shivers down her spine, coming to rest in a coil at the small of her back.

Two men, one who has a stupid, constantly shocked look, the other oddly seeming to resemble Puck move around the edges of the room, poised and waiting for the outcome of the altercation. Actually, Santana's waiting for the outcome as well, seeing as she _obviously_ has no control.

"Well?"

_No. Nononono_. She can read the panic in Brittany's eyes. What did she have to worry about anyway? It wasn't like she was the one getting into trouble. Protectiveness swells in her chest. What a silly girl in a silly purple dress, who probably wonders silly things like "_what's it like to live in the sea?_" (Silly silly silly—beautiful.)

"N—" Santana sighs, looking away, making sure her disposition is as sour as it can possibly be. "Nothing."

"That's what I thought." Sue all but pushes her arm away from her, as if she's been touching something too hot for too long. "Go eat your damn noodles." The Warder passes by her. "And don't let it happen again."

Santana doesn't wait until Sue is past her before she goes up to get her disgusting food, pulling the tray from the top of the stack and sliding it along what she imagines an assembly line to look like. Saltless eggs for the bolts. Stale toast for the nails. Spoons for the hammers (because they aren't allowed anything remotely sharp, although Santana could think of many dangerous and harmful things to do with a spoon). Rusted water for the oil. Dredging women with skin grey under the light for the workers. A piece and place and everything has a match. Everything has a match. She doesn't glance at Brittany when the blonde comes up next to her, a strained smile on her lips, her eyes still swirling in circles.

"S-sorry," she whispers, placing a tray down next to Santana's.

"Look, don't." She holds a hand up in front of the girls face, damning the quickening pace of her heart. She can feel Brittany's breath tickle her palm. Paradigms coil around her spine, reminding her of her firm disposition. "Just don't." Just what the fuck was she thinking. _I've never seen eyes as blue as that_.

_I've never tasted sunshine_.

_Have you ever seen the ballet? Or the inside of a man's skull? It's magical._

"It's magical." Brittany's voice. What the fuck?

Staring hard at her, Santana grips the sides of her tray, her knuckles beginning to pale. "What?" she asks.

"The way they sing. It's magical. I was going to show you that next, if you wanted." Is she even shaken by their last encounter? Of course she is. Though a child like mischief is pushing it down, drowning it beneath the depths of her swirling, universe eyes. Santana backs away, turning to take a seat at one of the tables on the previously left side (now right), the black woman and the wistful china-girl catching her attention.

_Please. Please just let her go. Please._

Because if she talks to her, she will say "_yes_." Frustration bubbles in her chest as she pulls the chair out at the end of the table, furthest away from the now patrolling Warder. She feels blue eyes follow, but not the owner. When she turns back around, Brittany is seated on the opposite end of the mess hall, her face pale, angry bruises beginning to smart along her flesh. But a ghost of a smile, lights its way there. She stares out the window now, but Santana knows.

She mouths a breathy _yes_. The girl painted in moonlight, beautiful and stunning, is painted in raindrops.

_Okay_, she replies.

Stantana stares at her eggs, pushing them around with her spoon as if they're made from dog, which they very well might be. (And Brittany silently contemplates, do dogs lay eggs?) Grey skies outline the ridge of Brittany's nose, the perfect curve of her lips, the way her throat bobs and slides. Raindrops pepper her, like the freckles on her face. And Santana knows she's never getting out of here.

Not with someone like Brittany Pierce sharing her room.

* * *

"You lookin' fer trouble o' sumthin'?" The chair across from her is pulled, the disgruntled looking black girl from earlier taking up residence. Her voice is hushed, head low, arms crossed in front of her as she scrutinizes the dark haired Latina.

Santana snorts, haphazardly tossing her spoon back into her eggs, little pieces of dead baby chicks rolling across the table to land shy short of the other woman. Shame. Yellow highlights her complexion. She purses her lips, giving the woman what Santana hopes is an intimidating up and down.

"I don't know jitter grits, you tell me." The woman raises both of her eyebrows, her eyes even and no-nonsense.

"Look, don' you be comin' in here actin' a fool, 'specially with no Brittany Pierce." Protectiveness swells in her chest, her jaw tightening. What did she know? What right did this woman have to tell her about Brittany Pierce? Santana notes the hesitance lingering deep within the woman's eye, as if there's something she wants to say, but can't say it.

"And don't you be telling me what I can and can't do. Besides," Santana shrugs, giving the woman across the way another withering stare. "I didn't choose to do anything."

"S-s-s-she does t-that s-s-s-sometimes." The slide of another tray along the decrepit table top catches Santana's attention before the pathetically shaky china-girl. More dark eyes. More unfamiliar faces. Santana can practically feel the walls being thrown up around her, her arms like a protective shell. Maybe if they're there, then she won't feel the slide of ice between her ribs.

"Then maybe you should keep a better leash on your bitch, Suzy Stutter. I don't care what she means or don't mean, she needs to mind herself before I do it for her." Santana leans in across the table, narrowing her eyes. The woman directly across the way rolls her eyes, lazing her chin into the palm of her hand. _Really_, they say. Santana holds the stare, replying with _Yeah, really._

"N-n-no, not M-Mercedes." The china-girl looks exasperated, ignoring the jabs, much to Santana's disappointment. Her blood roils. "B-B-Brittany." Santana sneaks another glance at the blonde, noticing the wide berth afforded to her by the other patients. Not even the woman eating her shirt (although the nurse seems to have gotten _most_ of that under control) casts her a glance.

"If there's one rule ya gotta learn, Dago, it's don't be caught messin' with that fool of a girl." The aforementioned Mercedes brushes her hand against the crumbles of egg, pushing them to the edge of the table. She hesitates before wiping them off all the way. Despite the compulsion to turn from the two and ignore them (which seems the most logical thing for her to do), a deep, disturbed feeling begins to work its way up to grasp at her throat.

"And I said, stuff your fat lips before I take my tray and shove it down your black throat," Santana replies, but finds her voice wavering. She places her hands on either side of the tray, the hard light casting long angles on her face, accenting the severity of her eyes. Honestly, Santana doesn't know why she's doing this. It wouldn't be so bad to have some sort of camaraderie in such a horrible place, would it? The china-girl moves closer to Mercedes, shrinking behind the larger woman. But how can they talk about her like that? How could they live without the moon and the rain and the sunshine? Santana's skin still buzzes from the earlier contact, the impressions of Brittany's fingers scarred deep into her muscles. (Maybe not scars, but rather places her fingers were always meant to be.) She shakes her head as if fighting against a haze.

"We're tryin' ta help, but if you wanna go back ta eatin' them eggs, lookin' like yous the bees knees, go right ahead." Mercedes holds up her hands, rolling her eyes one more time before she picks up her spoon and tosses it back towards Santana. "If you wanna kiss up to some white girl, then be my guest. Jus' don't bring no trouble down on us, ya hear?"

"Are you deaf, or has the years in the cotton fields plugged up your ears so bad that you can't understand the words comin' out of my mouth? I—didn't—do—anything." Mercedes throws her head back, a deep belly laugh rolling from her mouth. Her arms wrap around her sides, as if she's in stitches. Santana wouldn't be surprised if she in fact is, actually.

"No? Then why's mollydoll still watchin' ya?" Mercedes says, a smug grin on her face. Heat floods through Santana's cheeks, the overcoming urge to look towards the window straining her muscles. Mercedes' smug grin grows smugger at the way Santana's eyes flick to the left.

Frustrated Santana slides the chair out, the legs scraping loudly against the tiles. She stands, her body parallel to the top of the table, her hair threatening to dip itself into her eggs. (She carefully avoids this, however.) Her stomach turns, emotions slowly coming to a breaking point. If Mercedes doesn't get out of her face soon, Santana knows she'd do something she'd regret. Just what's the problem, anyway? She feels lonely blue eyes burning into her back, a ghosted smile on rain dappled lips. She tilts her head until she can see them. Grinding her teeth, a nervous knot forms in her throat.

Didn't anyone like the feeling of sunshine?

(In a room full of people, where everyone watches you and documents your every word, there can be nothing but walls.) Santana's muscles tense, ripping her gaze back towards the sets of dark eyes. Dark eyes hollowed by spoons and baths. By rain drops on window panes and electric blue eyes that dance above sun-kissed freckles. Why? Where paradigms and rules apply to the dregs of society, why does it matter? _You can't be Icarus_. Why? _Icarus was a man_. _A woman can't love the sun. _

A woman can't love the sun.

She slowly sinks back down into the chair, the muscles in her jaw set to work again. Blue eyes watch, three sets, each one different than the last, only one actually mattering. She turns her face to stone, remembering green eyes and broken pianos, where musk still lingers upon skin. Santana rubs her face.

"Y-y-y-you're Santana L-L-Lopez." She snaps her gaze back to the china-girl. "A-aren't you." It's not a question. But a fact. A fact clearly written all over her face when the two women nod to each other. Her name hangs like a cloud over her shoulders, notions preconceived and those not conceived at all building up her character. A name as empty as Charlie Parker or Coltrane, when they fall from the lips like dust.

"I'm Mercedes Jones. My man Shaun runs with them Creole's." She sneaks Santana a sad smile, the ring around her brown iris looking almost black. Secrets, like smoke, claw up from there, whirling in the abyss. Santana wonders what put her here, but worries at things she doesn't know. _Sometimes the truth is harder than not knowing._

She flicks her eyes to the chinaman-woman. "T-Teegan Chang, b-b-but people call me T-Tina. M-m-more modern-n." Santana glowers. How did this turn into an introduction. Wasn't Mercedes just threatening her? She crosses her arms over her chest, refusing to say anything. Maybe they would go away.

"S'it true that you chopped a man's hand off for bumpin' inta ya?" It wasn't actually Santana who had done the chopping personally, but rather Puck. "S'that what gotcha put in here? Fuckin' with the wrong man?" The two girls share a look, mirth in their eyes. The cloud begins to darken.

"And what'd you do, throw the baby out with the bath water?" Santana mutters. She watches as the two share a quick glance, Mercedes' eyes misting. The black woman's jaw tightens, Santana noting the way her hands begin to shake, her face draining of color. "It's none of your damn business, anyway," she adds. Silence takes the group, Tina looking between the two women for long minutes. She chews her lip, her eyes darting every which way before she speaks.

"I-I heard you s-s-screaming last ni-night…"

"And I suppose you'd like to take a stab at that too, huh?" She glances at the clock on the wall to her right, wondering when it's an acceptable time to leave the mess. Did someone come and pick them all up? She can't imagine they'd just let people wander around aimlessly without a cause. Ice continues to congeal.

"N-no. I wanted t-to say s-s-sorry."

To say Santana's shocked would be an understatement. Her teeth clamp shut, heated words dying in the back of her throat as she searches the other woman carefully. Tina doesn't make eye contact, her gaze like a hummingbird, constantly moving from one place or another. She wonders what would happen if they stopped. Would her eyes melt out? Would her heart stop beating? Would there be tears?

Santana growls.

Blue eyes electric dance opposite the room and she can't stop thinking about them. A fire smolders in her chest.

"I don't want your _pity_." She spits the last word as if it's venom.

Overhead a bell chimes and the world starts to move around her. Mercedes hasn't moved, her eyes folding into its own blackness, Tina staring sadly up at Santana. Watching the countenance of what she had assumed as a strong woman crumble makes her throat tighten. She almost feels guilty before steeling herself. She turns from the two, standing and joining the crowd. A hand wraps itself around her arm, and Santana half expects to smell sunshine and baby blues, the corners of her mouth beginning to turn up. What she finds is dead eyes and short blonde hair, the Warder leaning in close to her ear.

"The doctor will see you now."

* * *

The glaring light overhead blinds her, the uncomfortable procedure chair feeling like bedrock beneath her back. The light is hot, but not in that pleasant way the sun warms you, but rather a more stifling sort of warmth. One that doesn't want to let you go. The vinyl sticks to her bare calves, the material, cracked like dried skin, poking up at her uncomfortably. Brittany doesn't like the grey green of the chair. The way it clings to her flesh, masking her in its envy. She frowns (for many reasons), tugging the hem of her dress down further with her right hand.

She had tried to get Santana's attention, but to little avail. Quinn said it was for the best. The less she speaks to the woman, the better. But Brittany didn't really understand that. Shouldn't Quinn be happy for her? She'd finally found someone who _smoldered_. She loves the way the shadows lick around Santana's shoulders, the way the light plays against her caramel skin, the way her eyes burn with a slow, stoked fire.

"And she smells of cinnamon. Who doesn't like cinnamon, Quinn? It's what apples are made of." She nods her head, turning towards the honey blonde nurse, Quinn sitting to the left of her, delicately holding her bandaged hand between her own.

Hazel eyes squint, Quinn gently peeling the wrappings back. Her jaw is tense, a sigh tumbling from her lips. "You just can't, Brittany."

"But that doesn't make sense," she replies flatly. "There's nothing more American than apples, Quinn." Pain ripples along her arm, Brittany instinctively pulling her hand towards her before she relaxes again, allowing Quinn to relieve the last of the bandages from her. It peels along her flesh, her skin itchy, the dimpled impressions in the bandages leaving temporary rivers and ravines against her flesh. The hairs on her arms rise.

"And there's nothing less American than Santana," Quinn states thoughtfully, placing the wrappings in a little bin at her feet. They would be washed later and used on someone else, Brittany knew. She secretly liked the way the linens were reused. It was as if a part of her was going to be helping someone else. An invisible connection that only she knew about. _You used the same linen as me? We're the same now_.

"Quinn," she chided. "That doesn't make any sense." How could Santana be anything but? So what if she has dark skin? So what if she has smoldering eyes and has a name so beautiful everyone would have to remember it. Those things don't make her not American.

"She's not a good person, Brittany." Quinn has picked up a piece of cotton, alcohol being absorbed on the little white ball. (Brittany wonders if they're made from clouds, if they bottle part of the sky.)

"_Why_?" Exasperation aches in her throat. Her heart gives a little tug, her eyes staring hard at Quinn.

"There's only so much daddy and I can do, Brittany." Quinn shrugs, wiping the cotton along the ugly jagged ridge on her left hand. Brittany looks away in shame, the red glaring up at her. _Why? Why would you— _The residual pain is her answer.

"That doesn't answer the question." Her voice is harder than she's used to hearing, bitterness rising within her chest.

"Simon only wants to see you home, sugar," she sighs. Since when had Brittany become so insistent? Quinn feels the other woman tense under her hands at the mention of her husband, a distant look returning to her blue eyes. How long does this have to go on? Quinn isn't sure. She was never sure. She presses along the sutures lightly, frowning at the zippered skin.

"Is he coming today?" As much as she tries, Brittany can't seem to shake the wishful edge upon her words.

(How do you lie to someone who trusts you?)

At least she's off of Santana. Quinn tries to make her mouth work, tries to come up with some sort of excuse or words that can give Brittany peace of mind. All she manages to say is "It's Friday, Brittany." A silence falls.

_He'll never come_. Brittany stares at the wall ahead of her, the warped glass of the medicine cabinet making her reflection stare back at her with unfamiliar resentment. She melts a little to the left, the heavy smell of puss and cotton overpowering her senses. All she wants is apples. Doesn't he want to see the peacocks?

She isn't so sure if she wants to see them anymore, either.

As if keying into her spiral, Quinn wets her lips, pulling a fresh linen from the tray besides her. "You're all he talks about, though. He had daddy over to the smoking room on Wednesday, and it was 'sugarpie this' and 'ladydoll that.' It's amazing how he keeps himself sane without you."

"How're his horses?" Brittany slowly rotates her gaze away from the medicine cabinet, now addressing Quinn again. The nurse looks confused, Brittany rolling her eyes. She sighs to herself before continuing. "His horses? You know?" She tries to make a hand motion akin to the creature, but fails miserably.

The truth, Quinn bites her lip, staring intently at her wrist again. There are no horses. Simon just told her there were. And maybe Brittany knows, but doesn't say anything. Maybe she chooses what to believe and what not to believe. Life would be so much simpler then.

"O-oh, they're great," she lies. Where was that doctor? Another silence falls over them, Brittany staring down at her right arm. A thick purple bruise glares up at her. She can feel the blood moving beneath it, the way capillaries broken try frantically to repair the damage.

_You're damaged_, they scream. (Not real.)

She feels the porcelain in her heart breaking slowly. Brittany gasps for air softly, hoping that Quinn doesn't notice. She closes her eyes and sees the film red of her eyelids. She sees the rivers of veins, broken and ending against the lashes. She sees a dark smolder, of caramel skin and beautiful lips. Of cinnamon and apples. She thinks she can hear a thick voice, light with smoke, and harsh to those who don't know where to look. Who don't know how to look.

A door opens, but she doesn't want to hear it. Instead, she lays her head back against the green chair, away from all the angry bruises. Away from hesitant lies and careful messes. Because that's what they are.

Because that's what she is.

A controlled.

Careful.

Mess.

* * *

When Santana is next seated in Jesse St. James' office, he sports a fat lip and three sutures along his flesh. He glares at her, shifting the papers upon his desk carefully. The Warder stands behind her again, hands upon her shoulders, fingers working within the grain of her muscles already trying to separate them. She shifts at the unnecessary amount of pressure, squinting in pain.

"How are we feeling this morning, Santana?" He removes a pen from his pocket, holding it millimeters above the surface of the paper.

"Is this where I'm supposed to be talking about my feelings and shit? Because I don't really think it'll help talking to _you_, of all people. Oh also, could you tell man-hands here to lighten up? That'd be swell." She tosses her head back towards Sue, coating her words in as much honey as she can. She hopes he'll choke on it.

"Unfortunately, it's a necessary procedure. After your _outburst_ last night, we just can't take any risks with you." He gives her that wolfish grin, her scowl returning. "Cases like yours tend to be rather emotionally charged."

"Cases like mine? I'm not mentally unfit, St. James."

"Oh, aren't you though?" His words crash against her like incoming waves. "How long have you been seeking—er—darker tastes?" She shifts in her seat uncomfortably, heart beating madly in her chest. It's not something she's proud of. Her fingers wiggle at her sides, shame slowly trickling back. Where's the sunshine gone? To hold those things at bay?

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Defiant until the very end, spoken like a true Lopez, no doubt," he says as he dips his pen down to start writing. She stares at the long crack in the window, splitting the pane into two, uneven pieces. It would be beautiful had it been any other circumstance. Where pieces of a broken lamp still hidden, out of sight, behind the couch below the window. The shard, green, winks up at her. (How do you look for something that's forgotten?)

Santana lets out a snort, staring at the grey skies beyond, a suffocated sun barely winking beyond the blanket. It does little to illuminate the misty grounds, the slick, green hills low and rolling towards a copse of trees in the distance. There's a carefully manicured garden just beyond the window, the flowers there already wilted and dead from the rapidly cooling temperature. The hedges, while crisp and sharp, look dull and grey with swirling mists and hanging clouds. Naked trees, like twisted bodies, reach towards the heavens, begging the sun to return. But it won't. Not yet.

"Okay, how about this. How was your first night?" He glances at her from his stooped position, gauging her reaction. Sadly, Santana doesn't seem to care, her brown eyes wandering the horizon, searching for something she'll never find. "Did you enjoy your bath?" She turns back to him, her eyes hard, face blank.

"Instead of asking me about it, lady lips, why don't you have your manservant Sylvester here go and show you the ropes? I'm sure man-hands would love to sponge underneath all of those corpulent folds." He scribbles more onto his paper, and Santana knows that whatever she says, it'll just damn her further. Say the right things, and it makes you sound crazy. Say the wrong things and it makes you sound crazier. How many marbles does Santana have? All of them.

"I told your grandfather that I would try to _help_ you, Santana. In order for me to _do_ that, I need your cooperation." She can hear the frustration beginning to affect him. The way it makes his words move like slow, thick oil on his throat as he strains to keep it all in. She smirks at his inner turmoil.

"Oh, are you going to teach me how to cook? _Abuelo_ always did say my cooking was subpar," she muses, the corners of her mouth tugging into a smile.

"Can't trust no Russian's, Doctor. Should we bag her?" The grip on her shoulders squeezes tighter. Santana cranes her neck, giving Sue an incredulous look.

"Do you even know what a Russian looks like?"

"It don't matter, Mussolini because I ain't the one in the crazy chair." Sue lands a couple solid thumps onto the side of her head, the Warder's palm lightly slapping her cheek.

"Also, Mussolini is—"

"I'm sorry, I don't speak to Nazis."

"Don't deflect, Santana," Jesse says, interrupting her before she can pick up arguing with Sue.

"How many times do I have to tell you, St. James? I don't _need_ help." Her smirk returns when he slams his pen down onto the desk, cradling his head in his hands for a brief moment. (What she doesn't know is he bears a smile of his own, for his own reasons.) He stands from the desk, making his way to the front and leaning against it, much like he had the night before. He might intimidate some of the others girls, but not her. She wouldn't let him.

"I didn't know you were ready for another bath so soon, Santana. It must be the new environment." He gives Sue a meaningful glance. Santana's breath catches in her throat, her eyes widening in terror. Her heart begins heavy thumps inside of her chest, ice slowly solidifying through the marrow of her bones.

"I didn't do anything wrong!" She says for what she feels is the millionth time that day. He can practically hear the plead on her lips. His smile widens. "I've never done _that_," (lie) "Only with the horn players down in the pits. I wouldn't know what _to do_ even if I _had_ these so called dark desires!"

_But he's seen you_.

She knows her lie falls short. She knows he knows. But if it's one thing Santana can't face, its truth. She'd rather die than admit to her shame. Admit to her guilt. He shrugs his shoulders, looking down his long nose, his eyebrows raised. He can't tell that she smolders under the grey clouds, under the blue eyes of a woman not watching. He can't tell the rising heat along her flesh, pricking at the back of her eyes, constricting her throat. He can't tell. Jesse St. James can't tell.

But he knows her secret. And that's all that matters.

"Maybe after you soak in it a while, you'll feel more willing to open up."

Ah shit. There goes another blouse.

* * *

**Author's Note: So, I think I'm funny. And I think other people should think I'm funny too. I actually find myself laughing at my own little jokes that I put into the fic, but I also worry that no one gets them. I'M FUNNY. D:**

**Anyway, I've decided that I'm going to try and update on Saturday's, but we'll see how that goes. Sometimes, it takes a while for my lovely beta to come back and tell me about all of the things that I did wrong (seriously though, she's great).**

**Also, thanks for everyone who read and reviewed, the kind words really mean a lot to me. They help to motivate me when I feel all else is lost. And to you lurkers, keep on doing your thang, gurl.**

**So…special thanks to my beta, Swinging Cloud, for all of the hard work and for listening to me complain about how 1940 endearments are silly sounding.**

**I'll see you all next week. Sometime.**


	4. Something Wonderful

**Chapter 4: Something Wonderful**

_Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze_

"Good morning, Brittany." His voice is hard and not at all what she thinks a Doctor's voice should sound like. Her eyelids flutter open, taking in the middle-aged man standing at the head of her chair. He gives her a half grimace, half smirk, his closely cropped dark hair and pale blue eyes scanning over yet another piece of paper. Just what did they say about her?

"It hasn't been," she replies back. He mumbles something, and Brittany is certain that he hasn't even heard her. Quinn is still dabbing at her wrist, the nurse briefly hesitating in her work, casting the other girl a glance. She pretends not to notice.

"Does it hurt?" He places the chart down onto the low counter top, making his way towards the sink in the corner of the room. He walks with a swagger, arrogance rolling off of him in waves, staining the collar of his coat yellow. Or maybe that's his perfume. Do men wear perfume? Brittany wrinkles her nose, wishing he would change it if he does. Doesn't he know he smells ridiculous?

"I heard there was a commotion in the mess this morning," he says, his voice drifting in and out of interest. There is a heavy placed sigh at the end, as if he hates these sorts of pleasantries. He probably does, she decides.

"You should really talk to Sue about her conduct, Dr. Goolsby," Quinn snaps, dabbing more at the wound on Brittany's wrist. Alcohol slides deeper, itching beneath the flesh. Beneath the healing skin. She reaches over to scratch at it, but is slapped away by Quinn. She wiggles in discomfort instead.

"Oh what did she do to earn your ire _this_ time, Miss Fabray? Kick another puppy?" The sound of running water and scrubbing fingers pounds against Brittany's nerves. It's moments like these where she realizes that she doesn't exist. She allows her mind to wander back to apples, a tightness in her chest beginning to build. They wouldn't miss her.

"She's been jostling Brittany about, _again_." Brittany thinks of cinnamon, the way brown black eyes combust into a pool of everything. The hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"Oh, she looks fine," he motions towards her, droplets of water flying from the tips of his fingers. They land with soft thumps upon Brittany's dress, temporarily drawing the purple black. She thinks of the light drum of droplets on blankets. A shiver rips down her spine.

"She's a dog without a chain!" Quinn's grip upon her arm tightens, the cotton swab pressing further into the sutures. Brittany pushes the will to pull her hand back, biting her lip and staring at the medicine cabinet once more. She thinks of smoked words, whispered against her neck. Her ears begin growing hot.

"Sometimes, they need to be reminded of what they are!" _Brittany_. Her heart picks up in pace. The eyes in the cabinet are no longer her own.

"Need I remind you, _again_, who _she_ is?" The grip on her arm tightens. She tugs back against Quinn, her lips trembling lightly.

"Who she _belongs_ to, more like. _She_ is _nothing_." She feels ghosted fingers tracing down along her spine, light presses causing another shiver. Heat begins to flood her abdomen.

"Would you like me to tell _Simon_ that, Dr. Goolsby? Or _daddy_?" Quinn hisses, this time pushing the swab too hard against her swollen, broken flesh. Brittany swallows a small yelp, ripping her eyes away from the cabinet, the warmth inside of her slow to die. She tries to rip her arm out of Quinn's hand. Hazel eyes look shocked, pulling the swab away from the wound, stray tears of alcohol running in rivers around her arm. Brittany likes the way they contour.

"I'm so sorry, sugar," she quickly says, the hard edge around her eyes softening briefly. Brittany gives her a fluttered smile in response before turning her eyes fully towards the doctor. He pulls a chair up next to Quinn, grabbing her arm roughly and pulling it towards him.

"As if your father or Simon would take the word of a woman. Don't make me laugh." He pokes along the sutures, his fingers rough and invasive. Brittany doesn't think a doctor's hand should be so hard. There's delicacy with a knife. Like a dance along a wire, where the slightest misstep can lead to broken heaps of bones and sputtering muscles. She doesn't think Dr. Goolsby is actually a doctor. But rather a man, with a large knife, who knows how to sew. (She briefly wonders if Doctor might be his first name.)

Quinn bristles besides her, the harsh edge returning to her eyes. It masks the pain, Brittany knows. She offers Quinn a small smile, hoping to ease some of those dark, poisonous feelings that are easily harbored.

"You've been picking at it." He growls.

"Yes." Brittany replies without first acknowledging the question.

"Damnit, Brittany. Can you keep your stupid head out of the clouds long enough—"

"Wait—no." Hurt swells inside of her, extinguishing the last flame in her belly.

"—to stop picking at your arm?"

"But I haven't picked at it!"

"Your sutures are all mangled, thanks to your total lack of intelligence. Quinn—" He snaps, grabbing a scalpel from a tray to his left. The metal glints dangerously in the harsh light. Fear begins to flood her system.

"It was _Sue_. Don't go and blame this on her."

"—You're supposed to be keeping an _eye_ on her. Look at these sutures!" He motions towards the messy work, the scalpel haphazardly coming within inches of Quinn's face. Brittany watches her jaw tighten.

"They were like that when you put them in her," she says through clenched teeth. She's beautiful, Brittany thinks. The same way that a thunderstorm is beautiful. They provide water to the land, but also decimate it with lightning. She doesn't want to be in that thunderstorm, but she loves to watch it. Sometimes, Brittany wishes she could smooth out the thunder, though, brewing on Quinn's brow. Maybe then she would smile more.

In fact, Brittany thinks Santana might be of the same breed. A thunderstorm. But maybe something darker. Something warmer. Something more subtle. She wishes she had words for it. Heat begins to flicker to life in her chest again, her eyes bouncing back and forth between the two.

"Are you challenging my ability as a doctor?" His eyes narrow, a dark shadow cast over his features. Brittany can feel the cool steel of the blade pressed lightly against her flesh. She holds her breath and dares not move. All it takes is one jerk. Tension builds along her shoulders. _Please Quinn_, she pleads silently, staring hard at the nurse. But nobody ever listens.

"If you weren't so damn drunk all the time, maybe I wouldn't have to." His hand jerks. Her lungs begin to burn, her eyes watching the blade intensely. It winks at her, the curve of the blade smiling. _I'm thirsty_, it breathes. Words, like eyes, trace over the dip of her wrist, licking against her flesh, tasting her. Brittany grips the side of the chair, grey green and cracked vinyl seeping into her palms. Her knuckles turn white.

"Shutcher goddamned mouth!" The blade jerks again. She inhales sharply, but sees no red.

"You are supposed to be a _doctor_." Quinn motions towards him, her eyes on fire. "And you can't even do a simple stitch, how pathetic."

"Do I need to slap you to remind you where you sit, _Lucy_?" He jerks again, pressing the blade against her, little beads of blood breaking through the healing wound. Pain spikes through her arm, ripping up and along her left side. Quinn, hazel eyes shocked, looks at Brittany. A thick, sneaking trail of blood begins to work its way around her wrist to drip much like the alcohol had before.

Nobody notices until she's already bleeding.

Not even Quinn.

But it's not her fault. Brittany smiles at her, but she can't help the way the back of her eyes begin to throb. Or the way she lids them, head swimming against the thickness and metallic of red.

"Shit, look what you made me do!" he spits, throwing the scalpel back onto the tray. It lands with an angry clatter, disrupting the others in its wake. (If you give something feelings, does that mean it feels?)

It's easier to stare at the back of her eyelids. She can hear them moving about, the doctor (who she still doesn't actually think is a doctor) muttering insults under his breath, Quinn quietly grabbing materials from around the small room. She doesn't miss the urgency in which they both work. How deep had it gone?

_It was just finishing the job_.

_Everyone knows you can't finish anything for yourself._

She sees white blotches, the color draining from her face. She smells it. The cool steel, the grey green vinyl. Dark thunder clouds. And then, as if out of nowhere, the soft hint of cinnamon. She releases the grip upon the chair. _It's okay_. And maybe it isn't, but so what?

She got to hear her name on exotic lips after all. What else did it matter?

* * *

Fucking Jesse.

Fucking Sue.

Fucking Blaine.

Fucking Puck. (For no other reason than he's not there.)

Fucking bath.

Fucking Sue.

Fucking ice.

Fucking Jesse.

Fucking JESSE.

She lays dripping upon the cold, white tiles, her blanket wrapped tightly around her. Her eyes are heavy, her fingers burning. Ice stabs through every facet of her being, coating every pore, solidifying her very blood. Could you be still alive and cold blooded? Santana was beginning to wonder if they thought so. Or if they were trying to find out.

She clutches the blanket closer, her muscles twitching and convulsing, madly trying to pump her frigid blood through her veins.

Her red dress, rumpled and discarded, lays damp in a heap upon the tiles, the cool material still not yet dry. Fuck. She really liked that dress. The lazy _drip drip drip_ of raindrops (or was that from her) echoes throughout the room. Feet slap against tile outside the door, the vibrations causing pain to her very bones. She is cold. So extremely cold.

_You could get on the bed,_ she suggests to herself, glancing at the inviting shelter the other blankets provide. No. She doesn't want to make it wet for when she actually is dry. Santana doesn't much fancy sleeping in a lukewarm puddle. She pulls her legs in closer to her chest, trying to hoard as much body heat as she can. Sue had said that she'd be back for group therapy at three. Does she not get lunch now?

As if the sudden reminder is all she needs, her stomach growls angrily, twisting within her. She regrets not shoving the slightly discolored eggs down her throat when she had the chance. Even if they were vile, at least they were something. Her mouth tastes like cotton, thick and slow to work.

More feet outside the door, the closer she feels her bones are to shattering. Santana closes her eyes, her breaths coming in short, choppy spurts. Are her lips blue? She hopes not. Jesse better hope not, too. Rage builds high in her chest, her hands tightening around the blanket. Couldn't the world just stop?

She barely registers the door as it opens. All she sees are pale ankles and white nylon. Too close together. She chances to look up, both Quinn and Brittany (she gasps at the golden hair, but doesn't realize it) stumbling through the door. Brittany looks pale, paler than she should, the wrapping around her wrist fresh and bright, although blood has already started to seep into the fabric. It looks bright. It looks red. And it looks angry. She has one of her arms slung around the hazel eyed nurse, her baby blues looking hollow and distant.

Quinn has one of her arms around her waist, the other gripping her right wrist. Angry bruises stare down at Santana. Guilt washes over her, her eyes drifting down towards Quinn's hand around Brittany's waist. Then a spike. Rage again. She snaps her chattering teeth shut, her eyes burning as she stares hard at the nurse. What is she doing? She can't tell if her lip is twitching because of how cold she is, or if it's curling in rage. That should be _her _supporting Brittany. It should be _her_ arm wrapped around slender waist, drinking in her warmth. It should be _her _body the blonde leans against. It should—She grips her blanket tighter.

"Just rest until lunch, sugar. I'll come in and check up on you," Quinn says while she helps guide Brittany to her bed, slowly lowering her so her head finally meets the pillow. The nurse pulls the blanket up to her chin, then strokes her hair. Santana lets out a small growl, glaring as hard as she possibly can.

"Would you like me to subdue her?" Quinn motions over her shoulder towards Santana. Her look is protective. Another pang of rage.

"Santana?" Baby blues finally drop onto her. And she feels herself heating up again. She flicks her eyes back between the two, reluctant to drop her scowl, so Quinn would know she means business. But. Her lips tremble, the chill yet to be shaken from her bones. She hadn't even been done shaking it the first time. (Fucking Jesse.) "Why would you need to subdue her?"

Quinn gives Santana a long stare before turning back to Brittany. There is ice in her hazel gaze. And if she wasn't so thick skinned, Santana was sure that they would cut. She snorts, rolling her eyes at the nurse. At least she has nerves.

"She might be dangerous."

"She's not," Brittany says with a shrug. Again, as simple as that. Santana draws her gaze towards a particularly interesting speck of dust under the blonde's bed. Her ears begin to buzz. A smirk flicks across her trembling (and probably blue) lips. A thrill beats at the base of her throat, Brittany's words wrapping her in comfortable warmth.

Quinn notes this with hesitation. "Well…if you need me, just yell. Okay?" Brittany nods her head, but keeps her eyes trained upon Santana. She gives her one of her ghosted smiles. Santana feels the ice melting within her chest. If only she would stop trembling.

"If you do anything," Quinn threatens under her breath, staring down her nose at Santana. She gives the nurse a withering look, not trusting herself to speak quite yet. If she's going to insult her, she at least has to be respectable while doing it. And a stutter (sorry china-girl) isn't respectable. Content with her silence, she moves out the door, shutting it carefully behind her.

A violent chill rips through her, her chest convulsing, her lungs suddenly winded. Santana closes her eyes tightly, heat beginning to build along her ears. Shit. They really had to stop meeting like this. For once, can't she be decent and not a sopping mess? Santana clears her throat, nervously peeking up at baby blues.

She's disappointed, and alarmed, to find them distant and glazed. "B-b-brittany," fucking Jesse. "W-what's wrong?" She asks, a warmth to her voice she didn't even knew she possessed. If it's Quinn (or anybody else), Santana would shove her fist down their throat. No questions asked. The blonde peeks over the side of the bed, her wrapped hand clutched closely to her chest.

"I won't be able to show you the garden, after all." A frown tugs on the corners of her lips. When had they made plans to see the garden? Santana tries to remember, her eyebrows screwing up. She can see the sunshine in her eyes fading slowly.

"T-that's okay. You can always show me l-later." _I ain't going anywhere_, she thinks sarcastically to herself. The frown remains upon Brittany's face. A lump forms in Santana's throat, her whole body convulsing with the cold for just a split second. She watches as Brittany moves her lips to the side, as if she wants to say something, but doesn't know how.

"Quinn says that you can't go swimming in the pond, but why do we have one if we aren't allowed to use it? Not that it's prime swimming season, but I guess if you want to go, then I think you should be able to." Brittany finally says, a wistful, sad edge to her words. She levels her gaze, long slender legs dangling over the side of her bed. Of course she hadn't been swimming. Santana's teeth clatter harder, her eyes listing closed.

She hears the sound of feet on the floor, of fabric being drawn across mattress. She can smell the natural heat of baby blue eyes and golden blonde hair. A body is slowly lowered to the ground and she knows it's Brittany. Who else would it be? Her throat tightens. She feels hands, soft and tentative, rubbing along her shoulders. Then silk soft tresses against her burning cheek.

Santana snaps her eyes open, Brittany's head resting upon her shoulder, a hand snaking its way around her waist. She forgets to breathe, losing the battle of heat that floods her system. (If she were made of glass, she was certain she would break.) She tries to hold her mouth closed, the muscles tight. The blonde presses herself closer and Santana can feel her curves. The way her tight stomach presses into her side, the way her legs shift as she tries to become more comfortable. The way her left hand is cradled against her chest.

The bourbon fled her system hours ago. But Santana feels drunk. Maybe it's a result of the bath. She tries to work her mouth, but finds that she can't say anything. That her tongue, thick and heavy against the roof of her mouth, refuses to form any sort of cohesive words. Instead, a sharp intake of breath is all she can muster. Fingers brush against her hip, and it's all she can focus on.

"I'm sorry," Brittany says, her breath hot against her rapidly heating skin. "I should have told you." (In a world where people feed off of sunshine, how can you tell it that you need it?)

She should move. Santana's mind whirls, seriously wondering if this girl has any clue. She grips the blanket tighter. But it's nice. Is there something wrong with being comfortable? She's on the cold hard ground for chrissakes. And she's noticeably warmer and less miserable than five minutes ago. _She's so soft_, she thinks.

No. No. She should move. She really should move. Okay. She's going to move. She's really going to do it. Santana steels herself, willing her muscles to move. Brittany lets out a sigh, her head resting comfortably on top of her shoulder. She can feel her breath, the way it draws from her lips to invade her own senses. The way her chest flutters lightly. Something catches every once and a while, though. As if Brittany is a fish on a hook, her breath struggling to come.

Santana feels her fingers twitch along her hip. Shame floods her as a shock courses through Santana's veins. She worries that Brittany can hear her heart hammering in her chest, that she can feel it where her fingers brush against her ruined clothing. Her head buzzes. She clenches her teeth tighter, trying to will her lips to stop trembling. (They were trembling from cold, right?)

Her fingers twitch again, but this time Santana hears the sharp intake of breath from Brittany. The way a strangled sob dies in her throat. She turns her head, trying to address the girl. "What's wrong?" Her voice is a lot more stable than she expects.

"I don't like the color green." Santana narrows her eyes. The thrill of Brittany (because that's what she's taken to calling it) surges through her veins once more as fingers brush against her hip. Okay. She really needed to move. _But you're so comfortable_. Reluctantly, Santana moves, her muscles like lead weights. She laments the way the hand draws across her waist, the way Brittany's head removes itself from her shoulder. (The noose around Brittany's heart tightens, but she doesn't tell Santana that.)

The dark haired Latina struggles into a sitting position, her back pressed against the metal frame of her bed. It bites into her. She looks at the blonde, searching her eyes for an explanation. (How can you look for answers in the universe, though?) She offers her a hesitant smile (something Santana Lopez never did).

"It's a sneaky color, isn't it," she offers. _Just play along_, she thinks to herself. She's rewarded with a large smile, the likes of which send butterflies throughout her veins.

"Yes." Brittany cradles her bandaged hand against her chest. The red stain seems to be growing bigger.

"Does it hurt?" Oh this is awkward. She doesn't know what else to say. (She's reminded of green eyes and broken pianos.)

"Yes, but they're trying to make it better. Quinn says that sometimes it gets worse before it gets better." Santana feels her scowl return to her face at the mention of the honey haired nurse. What was she to her anyway? (_What did it matter. Jesus Santana, get a hold of yourself._)

"You must like that knife-throwing nurse," she mutters, despite herself. Brittany blinks.

"Who?"

"Quinn."

"…Quinn's a knife-thrower?" Childish excitement blooms within her iris. Santana notices the golden flecks there for the first time, suddenly enraptured by the way they catch the raindrops.

"Not literally. At least, I hope not." Santana's certain that she would make a horrible knife-thrower. The thought of Quinn failing makes a smile tug at the edge of her mouth.

"Oh." Brittany looks crestfallen, her eyes dropping to the space right in front of her. _Do something. Do something, anything_. But she freezes. Frustrated, Santana lets out a sigh, at a total loss. Santana Lopez _doesn't_ freeze. At least she didn't used to. Not before blue eyes and long fingers plucked her tongue right out of her mouth. "Quinn is my cousin." Brittany shrugs her shoulders.

"What? That trollop is related to _you_?" It slips out before she can stop it. Santana blinks her eyes in shock at herself. Shit.

"San…" Brittany scolds, but Santana doesn't miss the resisted smile upon her lips. Her blush deepens. Santana likes the way Brittany's pupil dilates, the way she looks at her with hunger. _Maybe_…

"Well, Simon, actually." Brittany twists the plain band upon her finger, ripping her gaze away. Santana eyes it carefully, trying to suppress the urge to snarl. Jealousy (where had that come from?) claws at her, threatening to stain her words.

"Simon?" She says his name hesitantly, watching the way Brittany shrinks away from it, as if the very mention of his name will bring a hand upon her cheek. (She doesn't think that Santana was made to say his name.)

"He's my—" Brittany stops, looking puzzled. Her lips tremble, eyebrows crinkled. "—my, uh. He's—" (She knows the words, but just can't seem to force them out.) Without thinking, Santana shakes her head.

"What a horrible name." She watches as the blonde removes the ring from her finger, a green line left in its wake. Cheap bastard didn't even get her gold. She doesn't like the color green anymore either.

"It is rather horrible," Brittany says, laughter (music) sneaking from between her lips. She moves closer, her hip now firmly pressed against Santana's. Brittany rests her head upon her shoulder. "He likes to hear himself talk, and his teeth are abnormally white, but both Quinn and daddy say that he's a nice man, so I should be grateful." The buzz in her head returns, giving Santana silly ideas. Silly ideas, for silly girls in silly dresses. She stares at Brittany's lips.

"I like you," Brittany says. She watches the way the words form, completely drawn in.

"You've known me for six hours," she says harshly, the strain obvious in her voice. (What does sunshine taste like?)

"And I've liked you for three hundred and sixty minutes of those six hours." She feels Brittany shrug against her shoulder. Move away. _You need to move away_. Brittany drops her right hand, gently sliding it within the confines of Santana's soaked blanket.

What is she doing?

What? Why? Yes?

This is good.

No.

No. This is not good.

Santana tries to beat back her quickening pulse, that same stoked fire from earlier beginning to lick at the base of her stomach. Her muscles twitch, but she isn't sure if it's from the cold anymore. Her teeth have long since stopped chattering. Desire strips her, pulsing at her lips, tingling along her thighs, reaching up with hungry claws into the very center of her. Brittany's eyes are dark. A beautiful dark blue, swirling in a vast cosmos that belongs only to her. Only to Brittany. _Only to me_, Santana thinks possessively before she can stop herself. She knows that's not true, jealousy spiting at the back of her throat.

She feels fingers curl around her balled hand, leaving scars she knows will never fade in their wake. Brittany tugs until her palm is flat against the floor, the cool tiles sucking all of the heat from her skin. She shivers. She feels fingers twine together, but only their little ones. Brittany leans back against the bed, her throat exposed as she stares at the ceiling.

Santana watches her pulse throb there. Is her heart beating fast? She can't tell.

"You're my first friend, here, really," she says, smiling at the dark haired Latina (her heart almost stops).

"I find that hard to believe."

"The other girls don't really talk to me. Unless it's Rachel, but she talks too much about how she doesn't actually want to talk to me...It's so confusing." Brittany wrinkles her nose at the mention of the girl's name. Santana studies the freckles dropped like kisses upon her face. She leans closer, lips jumping with static.

"We could always put a sock in her mouth?"

"But that would ruin a perfectly good sock." Brittany shrugs, squeezing the pinky finger still held in her grasp.

"They don't deserve you." Santana continues to lean forward. Brittany lifts her head to look at her, and the dark haired woman can already taste blue eyes and raindrops. Is the blonde giving her a look? Santana can't tell. Not with Brittany's breath so near to her, dancing currents tugging at her lips, drawing them closer. "They're all ignorant tramps who deserve scabies instead of your presence." She doesn't mean to say it, but finds the words filling the questioning silence.

"I love crab." It's sweet and simple, but Santana shakes her head. Where had that come from? She shouldn't be doing this. She really, really shouldn't. She brings her right hand around, gently cupping Brittany's cheek, her thumb stroking just beneath her eye. She's soft. Softer than Santana had first thought. Brittany hums, leaning into her hand. Santana's breath hitches, their noses almost touching. She can feel the static sparking between their lips. Brittany's eyes are dark, pupils asking so many questions, begging so many different things. (Is it her imagination?) Desire pools again as she struggles to hold back a wanting whimper.

"I like you." Brittany says again, her eyes closing. Santana can feel Brittany's heart humming at the base of her jaw beneath her little finger. Her lips are nearly to the blonde's, her tongue tingling for the taste of the other woman.

"You don't know me." She regrets the words the instant they slip out. Brittany pulls back. Fuck. Santana's heart throbs madly in her chest. The blonde smiles at her, then turns to place her head upon her shoulder once more. Santana groans, tension coiled in her stomach like a spring.

"I know enough." What did that mean? Upon recognizing her confused expression, Brittany shrugs again. "I know you smell like cinnamon, and you have a smoky voice that pretends to be harsh, and that your name is Santana and you don't really like eggs, and you like swimming, but not knife-throwing, and that you're beautiful."

_You're beautiful_.

And it was as simple as that. It really was _something wonderful_.

* * *

Quinn isn't happy to say the least. In fact, Brittany can't think of a time she's been more cross. She had entered the room shortly after to find both women sitting upon the floor, Brittany's head on Santana's shoulder and Santana looking like she had just committed a murder. (She hadn't though, because Brittany was with her the entire time.)

Brittany had smiled at her, her heart feeling as if it was about to burst. She just wanted to share that feeling with Quinn. But before she could say anything, the honey blonde grabbed her by her right arm (careful of the bruises) and pulled her out the door. Brittany didn't like the way her finger had slipped out of Santana's. It reminded her of that morning, the noose around her heart cinching tighter and tighter until the rope snapped with the shut of the door.

She stands now, looking very much like a caught child, a pout on her lips. She doesn't like to make Quinn mad, but by the fury written across her face, she can tell she's flying off the handle. Hazel eyes search Brittany's face, scanning for any irregularities. But she knows Santana would never hurt her.

_Not like Simon_.

She flinches.

"What are you doing, Brittany?" Quinn hisses. Brittany watches as a couple of orderlies move by, giving the two an annoyed glance.

"Talkin' is all." She shrugs her shoulders.

"You can't _do _that!"

"You keep telling me that, but never explain _why_." Brittany crosses her arms in front of her chest, her pout deepening.

"I _told _you. She's not a good person!" Quinn says through gritted teeth.

"I don't need you to tell me who is a good person and who isn't! I can decide for myself."

"Sugar, you can't decide anything for yourself!" Quinn has taken her by the shoulders, feeling her resolve beginning to crumble. Blue eyes harden, Brittany's chin jerking up slightly, her chest puffing out. How could Quinn say that? Hurt swells inside of her, replacing that feeling of warmth. Melted eyes pool in around her, words whispered through the void.

_We told you._

_Can't trust anyone._

_They'll all leave eventually._

_All of them._

_Everyone._

(Not real.)

"I can so! It's just nobody ever lets me try, not Simon, not daddy, not _you_!" She balls her fists, her heart a pin cushion.

"We're all trying to protect you!"

"I don't need protecting, Quinn! Santana isn't dangerous." She knew that the moment she saw her smoldering that night. Santana will never hurt her. She saw it in the way her eyes had dropped to her lips, the way her thumb had rubbed against her skin. She likes Santana. She likes Santana so much it almost hurts. Why can't Quinn see that?

"She is, though. If you knew what I knew—"

"You're like a dog, Quinn! You're loyal and sweet and kind, but you don't notice anything until it's already happening. You don't notice scraps of food until they're already on the floor. You whine at the door, but never _tell_ me, as much as I ask, what's on your mind. It's silly and pointless and I like Santana. So whatever you say doesn't exactly matter." Brittany doesn't like being angry. Simon does that enough for the both of them.

"Fine." Quinn raises her eyebrows, obvious hurt in her hazel eyes. She's only trying to protect her. "You want to know the truth?"

Brittany nods her head, her jaw feeling like iron. Nervousness creeps into her stomach, rooting and taking shelter there. What if it's something bad? What if Santana doesn't like Christmas or puppies? What if she hates the way the sun beats down upon skin, rubbing it to a glow? What if she's a secret member of the S.S.? Granted all of those things are preposterous, but the threat still lingers.

What if she doesn't like what Quinn has to say.

Quinn leans in close to Brittany. "She's The Spaniard's granddaughter."

What does that have to do with anything? The Spaniard is millions of miles away, huddled up beneath a cardboard box, drinking out of an old coffee tin. At least, the one she knows of is. Lord Tubbington has done some shady dealings with him in the past, but Brittany's pretty certain that he's on the straight and narrow again. She briefly wonders if Simon is keeping his promise to keep him out of trouble. Considering his last promise, Brittany pushes her tongue against the side of her cheek, her eyes wandering up and around the top of the wall. (Is that mold?) He probably isn't.

"So?" Brittany says. The nurse pulls back, serious.

"Simon—"

"Let's not talk about him." She interjects, her eyes darting back and forth nervously. Quinn's face contorts, rage and impatience steering her actions.

"Don't say you want to know the truth, then shut it out the next moment!" She turns away from the blonde, stamping her foot upon the ground. "It's childish!"

"I'm not a child!"

"Then act like an adult!"

So caught up in their heated argument, Brittany doesn't notice footsteps, or a cold presence invading, her mind whirling. So what about Simon? He doesn't matter. He doesn't know anything. Only about horses and money. A cold dead weight lands upon her left ring finger. (She doesn't think Santana and Simon can exist in the same universe.)

"Q," her voice snakes its way down her back as Brittany turns to look at the Warder. "Crayola." She drops her hands upon Brittany's shoulders, gently pushing her thumbs into her muscles. Quinn looks between them, giving Brittany a long, hard stare indicating that their conversation was not yet over.

"Sue, what are you doing here?" She says in that mock sweet voice. The one that makes her eyes look dark, and a smirk curl along her lips.

"Ladies, ladies, ladies." With each rendition of the word, she drops a light smack onto Brittany's shoulder. They're heavy with restrained force. "What I'm trying to figure out is why there are two perfectly capable people with semi-functioning legs yelling about my corridor when we all know that no one wants to hear your ridiculous voices." She looks over Brittany's shoulder, a fond expression buried deep within her eyes.

"We were just—"

"Crayola, you look whiter than a hog dangling from a tree. Has the little man been sneaking into your room again?" She drops another hand on her shoulder. Brittany gives her a blank look. It had only been one time. At least, he said it was only going to be one time. He'd worn the most peculiar clothing. Maybe they were robes. He did sort of remind her of the Wizard.

"No, not today. He said that he had to go flip his turnips." She isn't exactly sure what that meant, but it doesn't really matter.

"Right." Sue gently taps the side of her cheek now. "Well if you two armadillos are done twisting each other's lingerie, why don't you move along? I hear they're making rainbow and sparkle sandwiches for lunch today."

Brittany narrows her eyes. Rainbows and sparkles would taste horrible on bread. She's already tried. Acquiring the sparkles had been easy, however the rainbow? That takes tact and cleverness only afforded to those gifted in the art of subterfuge. She rolls her eyes. She isn't that stupid. No one is.

She opens her mouth to protest such a ridiculous menu, hoping that they aren't actually going to be serving such extreme food. Before she can, Quinn is pulling on her arm, muttering something under her breath. Sue stares with a fiery indifference before turning on her heel and walking back the way which she had came. She always seems to appear at the most inconvenient times. And it always seems to leave Brittany that same, sinking feeling. Like she has disappointed someone important.

"How does she do that?" Brittany quietly wonders. It's like Sue materializes out of the walls. Melting mouths and hollow eyes claw from the deep recesses of her mind and she's reminded of Santana. The girl with the sun kissed skin and chocolate eyes. _You're beautiful_.

_So are you_.

Santana hadn't said it. But Brittany wanted to pretend she had. Her heart flutters, her conversation with Quinn lost down the hall, pinned to the collar of Sue's shirt. It was lost. It was gone. And it didn't matter anymore. She was in a stone grove of painted flowers, and nothing could be more beautiful than dark eyes and cinnamon.

Brittany twists the copper reminder around her finger, thinking nothing but exotic lips speaking common words.

* * *

Who'd've thought group therapy to be a sham?

After Brittany left, Santana had remained upon the floor, her heart still caught in her throat. Certainly she was warmer, but she couldn't keep her mind off of blue eyes and blonde hair. Not that she could keep it off of it to begin with. She didn't know how long she had sat there (probably a long time) before Sue had decided to show up and pull her up off of the tiles. She didn't even have the energy to refute the constant misnomers about her ethnicity.

Her heart was beating to another drum in another place, with baby blue eyes and ghosted smiles. Would it be weird to chart the stars in her eyes? Santana couldn't decide. She had been so wrapped up in everything Brittany (she was certain that she was running a fever by the time Sue arrived) that she didn't even notice when the Warder shoved her into a chair.

And that's where she sits, her legs crossed at the knee, a scowl upon her lips. Mercedes is sitting two seats down, Anna Wong (haha hilarious, she knows) sits to her left, giving her nervous, shifty glances every two seconds out of the corner of her eye. The simple metal chair bites into the back of her legs, her eyes wandering out the window directly in front of her outside of the circle.

"—and that's how I figured out I had a twin." Everyone gives the speaker a round of applause (she doesn't know who it was because, let's be honest, she doesn't care), but none as enthused as the girl sitting directly in Santana's line of sight.

"I just wanted to say that I think it's amazing how you've overcome such grand obstacles, despite the fact that you're colored. You're an inspiration to most, and I feel like I can personally identify with you, coming from a Jewish background." She's chipper. She's loud. And worst of all, she's white.

Off white.

Like she can't make her mind what she wants to be. Santana stares hard at her, those big brown eyes and large nose. She probably would be cute, if it weren't for that big mouth of hers. (And Brittany.) Santana lets out a sigh, rolling her eyes once again. What's she doing here, anyway? Isn't there some sort of rule about not mixing? Like mixing vegetables and pasta?

"Thank you Rachel, for your great words of encouragement," the therapy doctor says, his voice sounding worn and tired. He's been through this a lot. She can tell. He's a middle aged man, with slicked hair and tired green eyes. He's relatively attractive, with a dimpled chin and carefully shaved jaw. His name is Dr. Schuester. And it sounds to Santana like he does this far too often. Rachel bats her eyes at him. Big doll eyes. But he's already looking again around the circle. "Anyone else want to share?"

It's not a suggestion. Her scowl deepens.

Tossing a glance over her shoulder, she looks at the other circle, the doctor there sporting glasses on the tip of his nose, his balding head pink with embarrassment as he tries to reign in another patient. Blue eyes peek over a shoulder, Brittany casting her a secret glance. Santana's flesh heats. Nobody has ever called her beautiful before. Maybe they were too scared. Or too boozed.

_Hi_, Brittany mouths.

_Hi_, Santana mouths back.

A ghosted smile. She wonders what it would feel like beneath her fingers. Would it be warm? Soft? Her dark eyes burn, ears blocking out the superfluous noise that the people around her are making. Quinn stands by a pillar, hazel eyes hard on her. Her heart twists. Maybe she's a knife-thrower after all. But Brittany doesn't notice. A genuine smile floods across her lips, her eyes crinkling, the endless deep blue crashing over her like a wave. She can feel breath along her skin. Fingers inching along her back, splaying themselves in the dip. She can taste sunshine. And she needs it.

(How do you covet something endless?)

"—Santana Lopez." Everyone around her is suddenly clapping, Trina (that's her name right?) looking at her expectantly.

"I knew it!" Rachel is sitting perched on the edge of her seat, looking like a puppy that's been injected with sugar cane. Her smile is wide, if not crazy. "I knew it was you the second you walked into the dining room this morning! I'm so glad that there's finally another, albeit less talented, famous woman. It's so hard being at the top, even if we are all—"

"What's she doing here?" Santana asks, flicking her wrist towards Rachel. Her voice is grating the last nerve she has. To her immense relief, Dr. Schuester speaks first, cutting off the words that had begun to spill out of Rachel's _enormous_ mouth.

"Santana, don't you think that's rude?" He gives her a long stare.

"No? What I think is rude is that there's some white girl over here telling Aunt Mary that she sympathizes because she's a Jew." She shrugs her shoulders. She looks back towards Brittany, sad to find her staring at the woman she had previously mentioned by the name of Terri. Quinn shakes her head out of the corner of her eye, but she pays it no mind.

"Have you not heard about the war in Germany?" Rachel gasps.

"No, bush brows, I've been too busy sipping sherry and discussing Mrs. Tennerman's affair down the street—of course I have. Do you think I'm a daft?"

"Then you should know how sensitive this time is for my people!"

"Well, then, why don't you do us all a favor and go join them, bolts."

"Santana!" Dr. Schuester exclaims, shocked by her outburst.

"She does that, Dr. Schue," Mercedes says, shrugging her shoulders. He gives her an incredulous look, still obviously shocked. (How could he still be shocked while working in this place?)

"Coping mechanism," Santana says with another shrug. She can't wipe the smirk off of her face. Rachel's pallor is dismal. Mercedes rolls her eyes, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"Santana—" Dr. Schuester starts before Rachel cuts him off.

"It's fine, Dr. Schuester. Obviously, Santana has yet to adjust to these amiable surroundings and is just lashing out. I'd rather it be at my expense than some of the more unfortunate girls here. It all rolls off my shoulders, since I know no matter what she says, I'm a star. She's simply just aiming at the brightest and most carefully put together person here, jealous of my great appeal and brilliant talent. I can't fault her for that." _God_, does she love to hear herself talk or something? It's like a spewing volcano. Once it starts, it just won't stop. Santana grabs her left ear, pulling on it in annoyance.

"Actually, I was just thinking how good you'd look with one of those stars pinned to your shirt. As a shining beacon, or something, just so I know to avoid you in the future." She lets her hand drop, glancing over her shoulder again. Brittany is biting her lip, a secret smile only belonging to Santana hidden within her eyes. She shakes her head slowly, blue eyes motioning towards Rachel.

"Your hurtful words won't find purchase here," Rachel has turned away, her arms crossed. There, behind her iris, something dark crawls. Santana knows it eats her alive while she sleeps. Whispers not-so-sweet nothings into her ears when she's alone.

_Do you think they fall like snow still screaming?_ She wants to ask, but even that seems too cruel, even for her. (They are the same, after all.) No. Ideas, like slivers, snake their way beneath her flesh, smarting against the back of her eyes.

_Do children build men out of skin flecks and tongues? Of neighbors and classmates?_

_Do they cry when they hear familiar voices on thermals?_

(Who chooses the chosen but the strong?)

(Who are the strong, but the chosen.)

"Shouldn't someone else be _sharing_?" Santana finally spits, afraid of what she might say if left to confront Rachel herself. She glares long and hard at the dark haired girl before another woman begins speaking. But Santana doesn't listen. (Something dark crawls.)

The rest of the therapy goes by quickly. Nobody addresses Santana after that, much to her satisfaction, and nobody makes eye contact. Her stomach growls at her, angry for skipping both breakfast _and_ lunch. Not like she had a choice. She stares out the window for the remainder of the time, her own reflection staring back at her in some twisted shadowed way.

They creep and crawl along the floor, the branches of the trees, the hidden sun working its way around in the sky. (In a place hidden from the world, did time still exist?) She stands when everyone else stands, ignoring the hurt way Rachel glances at her out of the corner of her eye. _Brittany_.

A hand slides down her arm, her muscles tensing, her body jumping. A body presses itself close, breath lingering against the back of her neck. She feels fingers, running against her palm, making as if to twine them with hers, but finds only her pinky caught. "Would you like to see the garden? I love it when it sings. It's magical." Santana clears her throat, trying to stuff her heart back down into her chest before nodding her head. (How do you say no to heartstrings and secret promises?)

She tugs them along, Quinn not far behind.

* * *

"You need to stop encouraging her."

It's dinner time and Quinn is standing right behind Santana (who looks at her roast beef, wondering if it's edible). Her voice is a low murmur, ensuring no one else can hear. Santana frowns, though she can't decide which is less appealing. The roast beef or Quinn's presence.

"Why does everyone keep telling me that?" She stabs the slab of meat with her spoon (because heaven forbid they provide forks). It attempts to stick to the dull metal, but flops down onto her plate with a dull slap. It smells like an old shoe. Her potatoes fare no better.

"Because they're smart. Being raised a Lopez, I thought you would be as well."

"How many times do I have to tell you people, I haven't done anything!" She pushes peas around, trying to muster up enough courage to shove them into her mouth.

"Like hell you haven't!" Quinn hisses. "What game are you trying to play? Did Atilio send you?"

At the mention of her grandfather, Santana looks at Quinn, confusion written across her face. The honey blonde's lips are thin, eyes searching her face for any clues. "Yes, because that's a brilliant plan. Send his only grandchild into a—hello—insane asylum to what? Set up a drug ring within all of the influential crazies? Because they'll be _so_ useful once they're out of here." She twirls her fingers in the air for added emphasis before rolling her eyes and picking her spoon up again. She chases some of her peas around before finally getting them onto the utensil then shoves them in her mouth with a grimace.

So they could be worse, but they could be better. They were in that grey area, bordering on horrible and edible, the skins like puckered prunes, dry against her tongue. Aren't they supposed to be boiled or something? She swallows them.

"I could always send for the Warder again. Would you like another bath? I heard your second one was even better than the first. Really got you all nice and clean." The threat licks over Quinn's words, coating them with a deadly venom. As much as she hates the idea of Quinn sticking her nose into business that didn't concern her, she hates the idea of another bath even more.

"What do you _want_?"

"Why are you here?"

"Because I'm crazy! Like the rest of them!" The people at the end of her table all snap their attention towards her, eyes beady and cold. Is she crazy? A lead weight drops in her stomach, her mind beginning to fold in upon itself. She isn't crazy. She is still capable to live in society. She doesn't talk to herself, or mumble or eat her shirts. She hadn't try to drown any of her family members, doesn't have any post traumatic depression. She likes to drink. She likes to drink and she likes the sun a little more fervently than a woman should.

_A woman can't love the sun._

_Only Icarus can love the sun._

_Icarus is a man._

_You can't love the sun._

"You're snappy and insufferable, but you aren't crazy," Quinn mutters.

_You're beautiful._

"Then talk to fucking St. James. He's the whole reason behind this fiasco." She shoves her spoon into some of her potatoes, sliding it into her mouth reluctantly. She tries not to think of the thick consistency, of the little lumps of peels and poorly mashed mess. Not for the first time since she started eating, she wishes that she had salt. Apparently, that can be used as a weapon too.

"I guess he could have you moved—"

"No!" Santana says louder than she intends. She can't lose. At least let her be near the sun. If she can't touch it, then why can't she at least bask in its presence?

"There _is_ something!" Quinn raises her eyebrows, a smug grin upon her face. "A reason. Talk." Santana glances over to the other side of the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of baby blue. She sees none. No golden blonde hair. Or starlit eyes. Only people. People eating. People talking. People crying over grey slops and chewed clothing. People crying.

"Where did you take her?" Santana demands, turning back to Quinn.

"So it _is_ Brittany. I knew it. Atilio never could mind his business."

"_Abuelo_ has nothing to do with this," she stresses. Although, that's not entirely untrue.

"Why else would you be in here. Thrown into a cage with _her_, it's all rather convenient." The nurse turns away from her, pacing to the wall and then back. One of her arms is thrown around her mid section, while the other is drawn up to her mouth. Her eyebrows crease.

"Bitch, do you have honey in your ears or do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Simon will not be pleased…" Quinn bites the tip of her thumb.

"Simon Simon _Simon_, who the fuck is Simon. Everyone keeps talking about him like he's some Don Giovanni, but as far as I can tell, he's some pussy willow throwing a temper tantrum. He never seems fucking pleased." She slams her spoon down onto the table top. The girls at the end of the table jump before vacating their seats. Santana glares hard at Quinn.

"Oh please. Save your drama for Rachel." Quinn rolls her eyes. Santana casts another glance over towards the other side of the mess, hoping that she might have overlooked Brittany earlier. She comes up short again. (Her heart gives a rather large and painful tug.) Her fingers burn, remembering where Brittany's had been earlier. She balls her fist. No. No. No. She's supposed to be getting better. No. Santana rips her eyes from her search carefully turning back towards the food set before her. She attempts to cut the meat with her _spoon_, but fails horribly, instead mangling the slab beyond recognition. Now it looks predigested. She wrinkles her nose.

Quinn's silence is a blessing. She hopes that the nurse is done prying.

"Honestly, though, who throws his _wife_ into the crazy bucket and doesn't even buy her gold. How cheap can you get? Please, explain that to me, Quinn." Her voice constricts around the word wife, making it near impossible for her to push out. Brittany isn't a possession. Only Atlas can own the world. (Santana begins to think that her and Simon were never meant to exist in the same universe.)

The hazel eyed nurse stares at Santana. She doesn't speak for a long time, the dark haired Latina having nearly enough time to finish her meal (gagging around the roast beef). "You really have no idea." Quinn's sudden revelation startles Santana.

"No, Sherlock. What gave me away? The fact that I literally said 'I don't know what you're talking about' or that I don't know what you're talking about?" She vengefully puts her spoon down onto the table (again), crossing her arms and turning towards Quinn. The incredulous smirk plastered upon Quinn's lips does not lighten her mood. Santana hates being left in the dark, especially when it has something to do with her. It makes her feel ignorant, like it is now. She grinds her teeth, the after taste of barely passable roast beef on the back of her tongue.

Breasts press up against her back, Quinn's hands resting lightly on her shoulders. She can feel her smile, can smell the rain on her hair. Santana averts her gaze, trying to draw her head away, suddenly alarmed by the woman's proximity. It's wrong, the way Quinn leans in close to her ear. Wrong when she feels her breath wash over her. She balls her fists tighter.

"Brittany is _married_ to Simon, Santana. Simon Colt."

Her blood turns still as the grave.

* * *

She waits in the lounge, her legs drawn up close to her upon the orange couch. The rough material tickles her skin, pricking along her flesh whenever she shifts. It's a soft color, although most avoid it, they just can't seem to understand it like she does. Brittany runs a hand over the material a warm smile spreading along her lips.

The other girls sit sporadically around the living area, some doing puzzles, others playing cards or games at the tables. Some sit and talk on the other couches, but no one sits next to her. It doesn't really bother her though. Not anymore. It used to. But they all avoid her like the plague. Like she has a disease easily caught. Like she _is _the disease. She doesn't like making to feel the leper. She isn't, is she?

She twirls the pencil in her hand, wholly aware of Sue's hard gaze. Quinn hadn't come for her after dinner. The shift in routine was disorienting at first, but the Warder had assured her that she would be along shortly. Brittany keeps glancing towards the door, the hallway looking longer than normal. Looking whiter. Looking harsher. What about Santana?

She doesn't dare ask the Warder.

She stares down at the piece of paper in front of her, sighing. A few thick strokes of the pencil, a couple light. Brittany begins to draw, easing the tension from between her shoulders onto the page, writing the pain in her wrist upon an off white sheet. As if it can do it justice. (Can anything?) Thoughtfully, she draws her thumb across the sheet, smudging the lines, blurring them into a new contour, creating something from nothing. _Nothing can't come from something_. Eyes. Eyes stare up at her from the page.

Eyes of unspoken words and radiating heat. Of things never needing to be said and things that matter, but don't at the same time. Eyes that captivate her. She needs them. She just doesn't know how to do them justice. She doesn't know what it means to be just. (Brittany doesn't think anyone does.)

"Pierce." Sue's voice pulls her out of her thoughts, a bitter frown tugging at her lips. She glances over at the Warder, the woman shaking her head no. How long has she been staring at the paper? The older woman mouths _Don't think about it_, motioning towards the pencil. Brittany crinkles her brow.

She didn't mean to do it the first time.

It was an accident. Why can't anyone understand that?

She looks back down at the paper, drawing another line. The curve of a chin. Beautiful chin, the perfect place to hook a finger. The perfect place to write love against flesh. She secrets another smile, drawing her thumb over this as well. She wants to touch it. Wants to feel the way the grains move and sink at her beck and call. The paper slides beneath her skin, staining her white flesh black.

Brittany flips her palm up, inspecting the fruits of her labor upon her fingers. The way the graphite shines in the light. The way the lines in her palms curve, marking her destiny upon the path of her skin. She traces them lightly with her left hand, the pencil carefully placed upon the table next to her drawing.

"Why do you think Santana is here?" The conversation pulls her out of her reverie. Her eyes fall upon the group of women sitting on the couches next to the orange one. If they notice her watching, then they don't say anything. Or rather, they don't care. Brittany suspects that they don't care.

Terri is lounging against the arm rest, her legs drawn up underneath her, her lips tight, eyes looking wild. Brittany can tell she's trying really hard not to speak, but is having a really hard time containing herself. If Santana's not here to defend herself, then anything is fair game. Brittany picks up the pencil again, holding her breath and waiting for one of the girls to answer.

"I heard she had a complete mental break down," one of the women says. (She never could remember their names. Only Terri's.) She has brown hair, looking just as every bit as a mouse as a door.

"That's what I heard too. Did you hear her screaming last night down the halls?" a second woman gossips, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She had a nervous twitch that kept pulling her head to the side. Brittany only knew that because the first time they met, she had thought the woman was dancing. She hadn't really liked it when the blonde had grabbed her by the shoulders and begun twirling her about. (How was she supposed to know?)

"She sounded horrid!" the third laughs, hiding her mouth behind her hands. She looks like a pig. A pig with really bad teeth and wild, unkempt blonde hair. It makes Brittany uncomfortable whenever she looks at her. So she avoids her.

"What _was_ that she was saying?" The mousey woman asks, mirth in her eyes. An unfamiliar feeling begins to spark in the base of Brittany's neck, her hand tightening around the pencil. She doesn't even bother pretending to stare at the paper in front of her.

"That's called pleading." (Pig.)

"Oh, is that what it sounds like?" (Twitch.)

"The Warder even called for Beiste. She must have been kickin' somethin' fierce!" (Pig.)

"It's sad to see someone with so much prestige fall so low," Terri finally drawls. There's a harshness to her words, a frantic edge. Like she must be the center of attention all the time. (And typically she is.) "What a poor excuse of a woman." She waves her hand lazily, eyes settling upon Brittany.

"Oh it is. It is indeed—" Terri cuts off the mousey woman with her palm.

"Do you want to know the most interesting part of the story, though?" A devilish smirk lights her lips then. They all stare at her in rapt attention. Brittany is suddenly aware of the rage building inside of her.

"I heard that she's sharing a room with the Ice Princess, herself." All of the women gawk, their jaws seeming to come unhinged. "And that the reason she's been put in here is not because of a man."

"What? What did you hear, Terri?" Brittany doesn't even care enough to identify the speaker. She grips the pencil tighter.

"Well if you would shut up, I could tell you." She levels her stare with one of her ilk.

"Sorry," one of them mutters. Terri's eyes draw back to Brittany, a smirk playing upon poisonous lips. Brittany has to remind herself to never listen to Terri. She's a liar. A liar. She never speaks truth. She's a liar. (She's a liar.)

"I have it on good authority that she wasn't brought here because of a man," she pauses for dramatic effect. (She's a liar.) "But rather because of a _woman_." Terri's eyes blaze.

The pencil in her hand snaps.

* * *

**And here it is. Another exciting installment of this thing that I write. :D So, tell me, dear readers, what you are thinking. I'm curious as to your speculations, especially concerning Simon and the like. What about Quinn? Do you like her? Do you hate her? Do you want to see more of Nurse Fabray? Ooo~ The romance, the intrigue, the mystery! What about Terri? Bitch needs to step off, right?**

**Thanks for all of you who put up with me, I appreciate those who read and especially those who review. You are the foundation of my world.**

**I've also decided that I don't really have a set update schedule planned. It'll happen sometime during the week so, I guess, expect one over the weekend sometime. My poor beta is busy and I basically work her to death. Special shout out to Swinging Cloud, because without her, apostrophe's man. I don't know what it is about them, but for some reason they are the bane of my existence. And only recently too. .-.**

**For those of you interested, I also now have a tumblr account. So follow me if you want, or don't that's okay. You can find me at x-roulette-x .tumblr .com (remove the spaces). **

**Anyway, review! (If you want) but seriously do it. ;-; (If you want.)**

**Kay…I'll see you all next week. /heart**


	5. The Thing About Women Is

Chapter 5: The Thing About Women Is

_Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees_

**September 21, 1941**

It's three days before Santana sees her again, all the while _Simon Colt_ hanging over her head like a particularly dark and annoying rain cloud. She knew that Brittany was married, but to _him? _Out of all the Simons possible in the world. It had to be _him_. Her disposition is sour in the least. The other patients typically give her a wide berth, not wanting to draw the ire of _the_ Santana Lopez. As it should be.

Quinn, Santana finds, is rather useless or obstinate. But really, what's the difference. She had tried approaching her the morning after Brittany didn't arrive in their room, but the hazel eyed nurse had scampered off before she could get anything out of her. Santana didn't see her for the rest of that day.

The second day, she had tried more firmly with Quinn right after group therapy. She hadn't eaten anything all day, her mind continually moving through motions that seemed likely impossible. What could have happened to Brittany? Was she moved without her knowledge? Had Simon come to get her? Santana had taken up to chewing upon her lip, the skin cracking and drying. Heat radiated off of it continually, her thumb and index finger worrying at the lobe of her left ear. She tried to steel herself. Tell herself that she was tougher than this. That this was silly, but always came back to blue eyes and painted faces.

She had marched right up to Quinn, her eyes dark. It was ridiculous. Quinn glanced at her out of the corner of her eye and had begun to move away when Santana had caught her by the wrist, her eyes narrowing.

"Where is she," Santana said.

"Let go of me," Quinn demanded, her voice low, eyes darting around the shuffling room. Everyone had just gotten out of their respective group therapies (luckily no one had tried to make her share). Quinn didn't really want to cause a scene, but she could see one imminent. It was written across Santana's face.

"Bullshit, Quinn. Where is she." She was speaking through clenched teeth, pulling the honey haired nurse dangerously closer, a dangerous smile lurking upon her lips. Santana flicked her eyes towards the Warder who, thankfully, was preoccupied with one of the other patients (apparently, Rachel had taken it upon herself to be annoying just at the right moment this time).

Hazel eyes gave her a hesitant look, as if trying to decide something. Her eyebrows creased. "Listen Santana, Brittany is here for a reason, just like the _rest_ of you. You can't expect me to give you the details of another patient just because you're you. So I suggest you _back off_ before I have you removed."

"Don't act like you're protecting her," Santana hissed. Her grip tightened.

"You have no clue what I'm keeping her from." For the briefest of instances, Santana saw hurt on the edge of Quinn's eye. Was it hurt for herself or for Brittany, Santana couldn't quite tell.

"You _let _her marry—" Santana cut herself off, her eyebrows wrinkled in effort. "—_him._ If you actually cared, you wouldn't allow anyone to—"

"And what's it to you, Santana? Family business is family business and it doesn't exactly concern you." How was she supposed to refute that?

"_Icepick_, Quinn! _Icepick_! You know as well as I do what _that means for her_." If Quinn wasn't going to tell her where Brittany was, she was at least going to pull out other answers. The nurse stared at her for a long moment after that, her lips tight, eyes searching.

"You don't think I know that?" When she finally replied, her voice was softer, tendrils of defeat laced through the vowels. Santana's stomach sank, a cool sweat breaking out along her skin. She flicked her attention over towards the Warder again. Rachel, while she was an extremely good distraction, could only keep the woman's attention for so long. The brunette was being pushed aside.

"Then do something or else _I _will." Quinn ripped her arm out of her grasp, giving Santana one more long, firm stare before turning towards the long white hallway to the North.

A wing Santana had yet to see.

The dark haired Latina hadn't stopped her that time. But her concern hadn't been ebbed away like she had hoped it would. Her stomach twisted in tight knots, her eyes constantly scanning for secret blue glances. For smiles and the smell of sunshine. She didn't eat dinner that night either.

The third day after her last encounter with the blonde, Santana sits at the far edge of a table, Mercedes and china-girl casting constant glances towards her. She considers saying something biting, but doesn't have the energy. She stares down at her grey soup, the carrots floating like little orange islands in a vast, colorless ocean. They bob up and down, her spoon pushing through the broth meeting little resistance. Did they think they could just feed them warm water and week-old carrots?

She lifts her spoon out of the liquid, lifting it to her lips. She has to eat something. Exhausted she closes her mouth around her utensil, grimacing at the saltiness of the soup. What is this? Did they dump an entire shaker in there and call it good? If she concentrates hard enough, Santana thinks she can even feel the individual salt grains that have yet to dissolve. She definitely should have gone with the mystery meat sandwich.

How hopeless can she get. She shakes her head, grumbling at herself before plunging her spoon into the soup again. She barely knows her. It isn't like they were long time friends or family. _You've known her for a total of twelve hours_. (But it feels like an eternity.) Her throat begins to close, body feeling as if it's being sucked down, pressure making her head feel as if it's about to explode. Maybe it should. Maybe this is what it's like to live under the sea, where no one can hear you scream. Where jazz is thick, like ink, pushing and pulling with the ebb and flow of currents, staining it black until sunlight can't penetrate through. Where even the smallest thing can break you.

But those are silly ideas.

Silly ideas for silly girls in silly dresses.

"Don'tcha know that soup ain't nothin' but water 'n salt?" A tray settles across from her. Mercedes pulls the chair out, sitting down upon it, much like she had the first time they had spoken. Santana glances up at her, giving her a weak glare. Timid Tina sits next to her, giving Santana sparing glances every five seconds.

"Yes! If you want to practice good nutrition, you should be eating the yams and asparagus paste, spread over bread! It provides many necessary minerals that the body needs in order to maintain itself, and since we're all grown, mature adults, I can honestly—without regret—say that Santana, you look like someone took a rather large piece of mildly expensive art and burned it in front of you." Great. Santana glares harder, feeling the chair next to her draw, another tray being set down. Why? Why did they have to bring her?

"Don't you have some furnace to stoke?" She dips her spoon into the soup again, a carrot coming up with the sickly broth this time.

"I can understand why you're so jealous, given my sheer talent, but that doesn't mean it isn't rude to ridicule an entire race of people. I know you're hurting on the inside but it would simply be easier if you let us all help with the transition in to Dalton life."

"Whoa whoa whoa, Santana Lopez doesn't _hurt_." She holds her hands up, firmly believing in her lie. The air in her lungs feels frozen.

"An' I'm the Queen," Mercedes says with a roll of her eyes.

"You are? Why didn't anyone tell me?" Her heart stops. Blood sputters in her veins, her pupils dilating, ears suddenly burning. Santana whips her head around, wary of the way the edge of her vision has begun to blur. The glass case around her heart cracks, the ocean flooding in to fill the gaps. Blue eyes hold her stare, uncharted constellations licking her flesh with warmth. An easy, ghosted smile lights her lips.

And Santana's world nearly falls to pieces.

"Brittany!" Rachel whispers dramatically. "You can't be over here, you know how the Warder feels about racial skin tones." Leave it to her to ruin everything.

"No." She shrugs her shoulders, placing her tray at the end of the table. It balances close to the edge, Santana hooking her finger over the lip and pulling it back to safety. So they hadn't moved her after all. For the first time in days, Santana breathes easy, a dull throb beginning to work behind her eyes.

Rachel bristles indignantly, her hands smoothing out her shirt as she makes to speak. Brittany drags a chair from beside her, positioning it at the head of the table. Rules be damned. "Is she colorblind?" Brittany asks. Santana can't help the laugh that bursts from her throat, her smile almost breaking her face. The look Brittany gives her is slight and soft, with an added _something else_. A curiosity. Something that wasn't there three days ago, but hides at the edge of her eye now. It grips Santana by the throat, forcing its way beneath her flesh to fill her lungs. To prick along her spine. It replaces the marrow in her body, flooding her veins with _something_. But what is it? Santana isn't sure if she has bones left in her body.

Rachel gapes at Brittany, in complete and total astonishment (only because Santana knows the woman can't do anything half heartedly). Mercedes lets out a short laugh, giving the blonde a nod, although Santana can't tell if she's proud of her or mocking her. She narrows her eyes, watching the colored girl carefully. Brittany slips into the seat, her smile lopsided and goofy. She picks up her spoon in her left hand.

"Ah, hell na'," Mercedes says, throwing her hands up in front of herself. "You ain't sittin' here."

"Uh…yes I am?"

"Do you have a problem, double dip?" Santana rounds. She isn't about to let go of the sun once it had finally come back. Not without a fight. A very bloody. Very messy fight.

"She ain't sittin' with us." All of the amusement that Mercedes might have harbored for Brittany's earlier statement is gone, a stern look crossing over her eyes. "She ain't nuthin' but trouble."

"Mercedes has a point, Santana." Rachel's eyebrows are positioned high upon her head, adding to the ridiculous way she flutters her eyes. Santana crosses her arms, leaning back into her chair. "Should Mrs. Colt sit with us, it will certainly draw the attention of the Warder, or in the very least nurse Fabray. I for one do not wish to be associated with one Simon Colt, for I have too much to lose as a bright and upcoming star within the celluloid world. You may not be as concerned with your self image, since you are already quite infamous as it were, but some of us prefer to stay on the greener side of the pasture."

Santana narrows her eyes.

"I simply can't risk disappointing my many and adoring fans. The aftermath would be catastrophic if not completely dismal!"

"Who are you?" Brittany asks before taking a bite of the carefully assembled sandwich upon her plate. The meat looks more turkey than it does chicken. Santana studies it for a moment, trying not to let another laugh shake her. She does a poor job, her shoulders convulsing. Glancing at Rachel, she wishes she could draw her expression and commit it to memory. The brunette sports an unhinged jaw, her eyebrows creased so tightly that they run together in a seamless line, her nostrils flaring all the while. She looks disturbed to the bone, concern etched upon the lines of her face. Panic laces her eyes.

Mischief bubbles and Santana can see it playing within the bluest part of the blonde's iris. She gives Rachel a pointed look, snapping her head around, eyebrow raised, almost wishing for the girl to give Brittany a run for her money.

"I'm shocked you haven't heard of me! I'm th—"

"I'm sorry, I don't talk to short people." Brittany turns back to her food, taking another bite. "Their words are always so quiet and far away…" she trails off.

"Oo, sorry, munchkin. But I'm sure the lollipop guild needs help sewing stripes onto their sweaters." Despite herself, Mercedes begins to laugh, her mouth hidden in her hands, tears beginning to well at the corners of her eyes. A light poke on Santana's knee causes her to jump. She feels a palm sliding over her leg, gripping her knee and giving it a squeeze before turning over. She drops her hand into her lap, linking their little fingers together. It takes all she can muster to control the heat in her face. She glances at Brittany out of the corner of her eye, the blonde sporting that same lazy grin. With _something else_.

"I'll have you know that I personally know the members of the lollipop guild—"

"Wait, you're a member of the lollipop guild?" Brittany's expression grows grim and serious. "Where's your pot of gold?"

"Brittany, I think you might be confusing leprechauns with—"

"No, I think you're the confused one." She squeezes Santana's finger tighter, the shorter girl just now realizing the clamminess of her usually soft hand. "All little people have stashes. Simon says that he keeps his stash with a little person's because they know how to hide it best. Also, you can't ever trust a little person. They like to take things that don't belong to them." She levels her even gaze at Rachel. It might be Santana's imagination, but she thinks she feels Brittany pull their linked hands closer to her own body. "At least, that's what he told me." As much as she doesn't want it to, jealousy spikes when Brittany utters his name. There he is again. A disembodied figure sitting in the room, always present, always watching.

("_Com'on Lopez. It's only an eye for an eye_.")

("_Skit-scat little kitty cat, wouldn't wantcha hurt."_)

("_The trouble with women is…_")

Rachel blinks her eyes, trying to wrap her head around the whole notion, her hands neatly placed upon the table, leaning in towards Brittany. Mercedes has yet to stop laughing, her face beginning to turn red. The singer literally doesn't know what to say. Recognizing this, Brittany smiles her lazy smile and turns back towards Santana before awkwardly picking up her sandwich in her hand.

"I heard sumthin' th' otha day." Mercedes is still smiling, little spurts of laughter breaking up her words. She looks straight at Santana.

"Dear Lord." What can it be this time? She stares back at Mercedes, her eyebrows raised to indicate her boredom, her lips tugged into a lopsided frown. She wraps her free arm around her midsection, her soup forgotten about. (She was sure to regret that later.)

"Terri's been talkin' 'boutcha." She feels Brittany stiffen, the blonde suddenly too interested in her sandwich.

"So?" Santana fails to see the point. As if the sheer mentioning of her name, Santana notices Terri staring at her. A coy grin curls into her needle pricked eyes. She shoots the blonde woman a glare before turning back to Mercedes.

"Terri is known for her rumors, Santana." Rachel has turned away from Brittany, eyeing the dark haired woman now. "See, there are rules here, and if you would just let us teach them to you, then there wouldn't be any need for Terri to start talking about you. She has a bit of a bad habit, you see, when it comes to fabricating tales."

Being a Lopez, Santana is used to rumors. She snorts, rolling her eyes.

"I don't like the way she speaks about you." It's Brittany who speaks, her voice quiet. Chocolate eyes drink in the way pink has begun to flush over her neck, the way it seeps up into her cheeks. She crinkles her brow, turning back towards Mercedes.

"Well, what did she say?" she snaps.

"She tryin' ta pin ya as a bulldagger, butcha ain't are ya?" Icy fingers claw up into her stomach, her palms suddenly feeling very warm. All four of the women regard her with curiosity, none so curious as baby blues. The feeling of Brittany's finger in hers, the way her skin marks her. The way her lips buzz whenever the blonde is near. It sends guilt flooding through her system. Santana can't stand it. She can't stand the way that they all wait for her to say something. Can't stand that _something_ behind Brittany's eyes. What is it? She needs to know, but fears that it might be resentment. A curious resentment. Her throat begins to close. She can't lose. She just found her.

Santana wiggles her finger out from Brittany's, ignoring the harsh intake of breath the other girl makes, a brief flash of hurt crossing between a beautiful, freckled brow. She wraps that arm around herself as well, all too aware of Brittany's hand still upon her knee. What should she do? Their faces are all so guarded. Curious, certainly, but guarded. So Santana does what every Lopez learns to do at a very young age. She opens her mouth.

"N—"

"It wouldn't matter either way, Mercedes, if she is or if she isn't. She's still a proprietary resident, which means she's still one of us. Besides, there's nothing wrong with being who you are. Who Santana finds herself attracted to doesn't make it anymore Terri Schuester's business than our own."

"But I'm n—"

"B-b-but R-Rachel," Tina says for the first time since she sat down. Oh great, now the shy one is interrupting her. Santana's scowl deepens.

"She's our _friend_ now. She'll tell us why she's in here when she's ready to. Terri has done more harm than good, and we all know her to be a pathological liar, so it's really better to not take anything she has to say to heart. You both should know that by now." The muscle just beneath Santana's eye involuntarily twitches as she stares at the brunette in shock. Did Rachel just _defend_ her?

She turns to look at Brittany, an unreadable expression dabbed along her face, her eyes turning from heartbroken to confused, then back to heartbroken again. It's like Santana can see the pieces of Brittany reflected in her baby blue eyes. The way they fracture and mend. Fracture and mend.

(_"How many fishes do you think are at the bottom of the ocean?"_)

"Y-y-yes but—"

"Do you remember what Terri said about you when you first got here, Tina?" The girl in question pales, her bottom lip beginning to tremble. "If I recall correctly, and I always do, she told everyone that you were the unsolicited prostitute that hung around _Grandy's_ before he was taken into custody. She also said that you smuggled illicit drugs into the facility by inappropriate means, resulting in a full body search by the Warder. Do you remember that?" The china-girl shuts her mouth with a snap.

"And we asked Tina if it were true then, too," Mercedes says. "Jus' as we asked you if you was really part of that triple murder. We gotta know." She levels her eyes back to Santana. Rachel lets out a long sigh next to her, raising her eyebrows to the extreme again before shaking her head. The question stands.

"Why didn't you ask me?" Brittany tilts her head.

"Ask you what?" Mercedes turns to look at her.

"Well no one asked about me when I got here. What was my story?" There's excitement in her eyes, as if discovering something new. Like a new part of herself. Santana can't help but smile. She feels Rachel's eyes on her.

"Er…" Mercedes looks down at the table awkwardly, trying to form her thoughts. "No one…talked 'bout you."

"Why?"

"Ain't nobody dumb enough ta mess with Simon's moll," the dark girl finally answers. Possessiveness begins to bubble up in her chest again. Brittany isn't property. Silence falls over the small group, the sounds of the mess churning around them. The _tick tick tock_ of the clock counting away the seconds of her very life. The only life she has left to live.

(_"The thing about women is…"_)

"It's not fair that you all get to have such interesting double lives," Brittany finally says. She withdraws her hand from Santana's knee. She stares down at her sandwich. Ache is left in the wake of her heated palm and it takes all of Santana's will power to not reach out and grab her wrist. She can make this better. She can. She knows she can.

"We can make one up later if you want Britt?" The nickname slips out before she can stuff it back in. Santana feels her face grow tight, her muscles trembling with tension. A childish glimmer returns to baby blue eyes as she peeks at Santana, a smile secreted there. And Santana knows it's only for her. She can feel the unanswered question still sparking in the air, Mercedes hanging on every syllable. Rachel's eyes burn into the side of her face.

"Really?"

"Yeah, we'll make it as ritzy as you want." She offers the blonde her own secreted smile.

"Can I be a dancer?"

"Sure."

"With a wooden leg?"

"…Anything you want."

"In order to be a dancer, one must have the use of their legs, Brittany, so being a dancer with a wooden leg—" Rachel starts.

"And in order to be a singer, one must—uhg—you know what. Shut up, even imitating you makes me angry." Brittany smiles, the stars in her eyes shining only for Santana. (Only for her. And no one else.)

* * *

This morning, she had woken up in a bed not her own. Again. It's happened before, sometimes multiple times during the week, but Quinn is always there to transition her, as if it's on purpose. Does Quinn move her while she sleeps? The Warder had jumped on her the second the pencil snapped, but she wasn't going to do anything with it. She was just shocked is all.

But Terri's words stirred something.

When she had seen Santana that morning at breakfast (or was it lunch?), she felt herself drawn there. Although she knew that she had just seen her the day before, it felt like an eternity. The only person to make her feel at home and it's someone she isn't supposed to talk to.

The blonde can't abide by that. It's a stupid rule.

The bell overhead chimes, drawing her gaze to the clock. 12:30, it reads, the second hand ticking slowly by. She casts a small glance towards Santana, catching chocolate brown eyes canvassing her face. Her flush deepens. _Because of a woman_. What does that mean? Can that even happen? Brittany's never heard of it, but that doesn't really mean anything. She's never seen Rome, but she knows it exists. In the very least on pages. She's never touched a lion, but she knows its coat to be soft (despite what Simon says).

"Brittany." A familiar voice hisses, hands dropping upon her shoulders. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sitting."

"Ah, see, caramel, I tolja." Mercedes throws her hands up in front of her, glaring at Santana.

"Fuck you."

"Such speech is unfitting for a lady, Santana!" Rachel gasps at her, and Brittany wonders if everything shocks the brunette. (She decides it probably does.) The blonde watches Santana roll her eyes, the way her forehead creases, the way her mouth turns into a deeper decline. Her fingers twitch. She should smile more. She likes it when Santana smiles, the way her eyes crinkle, the way a softness overtakes the harshness. The way the smolder builds and builds and crackles deep within her bones. She reaches her hand out, her fingers sparking with static, full of ache. She cups her knee, relishing the way the warmth hits her palm.

Santana jerks, eyes jumping to hers. Then up to Quinn. Then back to her. Her colored skin heats beneath her hand.

"Don't go blamin' us, nurse Fabray. She sat here by herself." Brittany's ears buzz, the inside of her head beginning to feel like clouds. Her vision swirls, tongue keyed into the scent of smoked cinnamon. She can't tear her gaze away. Can't. Won't. Why should she? Why should she when she feels everything will be okay. That when she looks into those harsh eyes, full of fear, she knows the mouth in the walls won't whisper to her. Knows that there won't be any more bruises. Why should she look away?

Santana is her friend.

_Are you foolish, girl?_

_It's like Simon all over again._

_Don't you remember?_

(How could she forget?)

Anxiety floods her system. Brittany pulls her hand back as if she's just touched an electric fence, ripping her eyes away (ripping her heart out, but she doesn't know it yet).

"Brittany you can't just—"

"I can. And I will again at lunch, Quinn," she snaps. They all stare at her in shock. She doesn't snap. But Quinn is being so overbearing. Like a lobster in a boiling pot of water. The blonde cranes her neck around to stare Quinn in the eyes. She gives her an easy smile, shrugging her shoulders beneath the hands, hoping to assuage the tension. But all eyes still burn into her.

"Brittany," hazy tones filled with jazz begins. She glances at Santana. "It _is_ lunch." An indiscernible look crosses her features, the inside of her cheek dipping, indicating that she is biting it on the inside.

"I was wondering why they were serving sandwiches for breakfast. There's not even syrup on them," she tries to recover, but can't help the way she notices the emotions flicking behind the chocolate eyes.

"We have to go, Brittany." She doesn't notice the way Quinn stares hard at Santana. Or the way Rachel burns a look into the back of her head. She doesn't notice the way Mercedes narrows her eyes in suspicion, turning to look at the retreating back of Terri. Or the way Tina darts her attention between herself and Santana. She doesn't notice anything but the man.

The man with the tight jaw and black hair running down his head like a stripe. (Maybe he likes skunks?) The way he moves towards the table, a cocky grin resting on his lips, dark eyes landing upon Santana. Brittany stands to put herself in between them, but feels Quinn pulling her along. She doesn't like the way he waggles his eyebrows at her, or the way he smells of cheap cologne and peppermint aftershave. She doesn't like that she's never seen him before. Or that he wears the starched white of an orderly.

Most of all, she doesn't like the way he weasels his way by her, giving her a nod, looking her up once, then down, as if assessing her worth. The way he drops his hands upon Santana's shoulders, leans close to her ear and breathes words. Chocolate eyes grow wide, relief flooding through them.

It stirs _something_ inside of Brittany. Something she's never had to put words to.

Quinn drags her through the mess threshold, Brittany resisting every step of the way.

* * *

She's elbow deep in dirt, a trowel set to her right. Quinn is reading a book upon one of the many stone benches, glancing up every once and a while to ensure she's still smiling. Still whispering to the dead flowers. Still gathering the weeds. Still raking the wilted petals. Gathering them into little piles of color. Brittany smiles down at them, loving the way they slip beneath her fingers. Loving the silky smoothness of them.

Are flowers made out of flesh? Or is Santana's skin simply made out of flowers? She can't decide. She doesn't smell like flowers. Not that she smells bad, no. But it's different. Much different. It's been twenty minutes since afternoon chores started. Twenty minutes since she's seen Santana and already it feels like twenty minutes too long.

The flowerbeds are dying, preparing for winter. Brittany never could understand how they always knew it was time to come back to life again. When she was a child, she would cry and cry and cry. Sad that the roses her mama had planted were dying. She was scared that they would be gone forever. But her mama always reassured her. Always said that death wasn't a permanent thing. That it was something that the flowers had to do in order to survive. Sort of like a haircut.

"We're just cutting their hair, Brittany," she had told her.

"You sure it won't hurt them?" she had replied through hiccupped tears.

"Oh baby girl, of course it won't. Don't you feel better after Lisandra snips those frayed edges from your head?"

"I guess so."

"It's the same thing."

"But they'll die."

"Death isn't nothing but a temporary state of being, darling."

"B-b-but…"

"They'll always come back to find you, beautiful girl." (Flowers are drawn to sunshine.)

"Always?"

"Always."

Her mama left three weeks later.

The memory makes her eyes well, the crisp scent of dirt and late summer seeping into her bones. She was eight when it happened. Daddy had said there was an accident down at Harbor Point. Some sort of accident. Resulting in her mama being…lost. She knows things now that she didn't know then. She knows she'll never come back.

Brittany's throat tightens, her fingers delicately wrapped around the stem of a withered Carolina Allspice, the once red petals brown and crinkled along the edges. It sags towards the earth as if in a perpetual state of exhaustion. She snaps the stem in her hands, liquid pouring from the fracture, coating her hand in residual residue. Delicately, she places the flower down next to her trowel.

"Quinn?" She asks, wishing to take her mind off of the thoughts at hand.

"Hmm?" the nurse replies, peeking over the edge of her book.

"Who's that man?" She clips another of the dying flowers away. It's called pruning. Trimming? Oh what does it matter. They told her that it had to be done so that way the flowers could return to life in the spring, after the snow. She can't help but imagine their screams.

"What man?" She hears the nurse shuffle, knowing she's put her book down.

"The striped one."

"Striped?" How else is Brittany supposed to describe him? She wrinkles her nose before placing another flower down next to her.

"The one with the awful hair cut. Maybe he missed while he was shaving. Or do you think he made his barber angry and as revenge he only left a little bit of hair?" She smiles at the thought. "Making the man with the big knife angry never bodes well, does it?" Her look darkens briefly. Guilt flashes through hazel eyes, Brittany shrugging the blanket of hurt threatening to wrap around her shoulders.

"Uh…"

"Do you think it'll become popular? A funny hair cut like that? I mean, it doesn't really protect your head from the sun, and it can't keep the ears warm. And you can't really braid it. Or comb it. Or do anything with it."

"I don't really know what you're talking about." Once Quinn confesses, Brittany turns to look at her, eyes narrowed. Is she just trying to keep something from her again? The nurse looks lost enough, however. Brittany motions over her own head, wet clumps of dirt landing to stain her golden blonde hair black.

"The fish man. Do you think he knows he's not actually in the ocean?"

"Britt—"

"Do you think he's from the ocean? I wonder what it's like down there." She brushes her fingers over one of the blooms. It still retains its full color. She bends to smell it, the strong spice enveloping her for a split second.

"Brittany I have no idea what you're talking about." Quinn can't keep the laughter from her words, a smile breaking out over her face. She's used to the strange tangents that Brittany tends to go off on, but they never fail to break her stony façade.

"The man with Santana." Quinn grows rigid at the mention of the woman, her arms crossing in front of her chest. Brittany turns back to the task at hand.

"You mean Puck."

"What's that?"

"That's his name."

"Well it's silly," she grumbles, a heat unlike any she's felt before poking thousands of searing holes in her lungs. The grass shuffles and she knows Quinn is walking towards her. She can feel the heat radiating off of her. And she suspects that their argument from the previous day is about to come back full force. She clips another flower.

(The thing about Santana is.)

(She just can't live without her.)

"What has gotten into you?"

"You suspect something is wrong, too?" she replies, turning towards her friend and grabbing her hands. Quinn attempts to disengage, considering her supremely white uniform, but finds she can't push away the other girl's hands.

"You're not acting yourself."

"Certainly I am."

"You've been snapping at people all morning. I'm beginning to think that Santana is a horrible influence on you."

"I can't help it, Quinn." She averts her gaze, the noose tightening as she scans the tops of the flower bushes, watching a few of the other patients as they move about their own tasks upon the grounds. She wonders, not for the first time, where the peacocks are. She doesn't know it, but she searches for brown eyes and apples. For cinnamon and chocolate, her muscles clenching tightly within her stomach, her hands beginning to shake. She can still feel the heat from Santana's leg burned upon her palm. She can still feel a whispered finger clutched in her grasp. Why had she pulled away like that? Didn't she enjoy the feeling of having someone near?

_Maybe someone other than you._

(How do you tell the blanket of darkness you need it?)

Quinn studies her. And she knows the nurse is grasping for an excuse, any excuse. She's only trying to look out for her. But she isn't a child. Brittany knows how to handle people. (If you scare them with words, they'll leave you alone. If you scare them enough, they'll even send you away.)

"I feel like summer and winter all at the same time, Quinn," she begins.

"Are you running a fever?" The honey blonde nurse presses a hand to her forehead.

"It's like I'm stuffed so full of clouds that I'm floating away. And my skin heats up like a biscuit thrown on a stove top and I'm so full of all that warm, fluffy goodness that I want to burst and spread myself with butter." Brittany drops Quinn's hands, rubbing her own along her forearms, goosebumps cropping up. Is it from the cold? Brittany suspects not. She feels bashful. Sheepish (though not to be mistaken, she is not a sheep).

"Do you think you need to speak to Dr. St. James?" Quinn presses the back of her hand to her cheek now, concern growing in her eyes. Brittany is always euphoric after treatment. Always in this same stupor of weird words and strange feelings. Quinn doesn't like it. She's tried to talk to the doctors about it before, but they assure her it's normal. It's safe. Nothing bad is happening. But for whatever reason, she can't get behind it. Something in her gut tells her everything isn't safe.

"No," Brittany replies, rolling her tongue in her mouth experimentally. "I just wanted you to understand, is all."

"To understand what?"

"The way I feel."

"Like a biscuit," Quinn deadpans.

"Exactly!" The blonde turns back to the flower bed, studying the way the branches twist and interlock, making up an intricate network of life. She brushes another flower wondering if it would go good in Santana's hair. Her cheeks flush.

Quinn sighs beside her, chuckling a good natured "Alright," before she turns to go back to her bench. She's tried to sort out Brittany before, but it always ends in confusion. It's best to just nod and let her speak her piece.

"Quinn?" As angry as she is with the nurse, Brittany finds that she can't help but trust her. And why not ask? Curiosity never hurt anyone, right? She watches the nurse turn back to her out of the corner of her eye, the pale sky casting her into an ethereal glow. Hazel eyes look expectant. "If a duck likes another duck, is that okay?"

Quinn looks around, her eyebrows wrinkling, eyes narrowing. "Uh…why wouldn't it be, Brittany? They're both ducks, after all." Is this a trick? Is there something she's missing?

"What if they're both the same type of duck?"

"That's the way it works. But don't quote me, I'm not an expert on ducks."

"What if they're different?"

"Different how?" Quinn doesn't quite know where this is going. With Brittany, anything is possible.

"Like what if one has black tail feathers and the other has red. What about then? Are there rules in duck society? Do you think they have a duck king?" She half asks the last question to herself, musing at the idea.

"Well, I don't see why that would matter. I don't think ducks are too concerned with those sorts of things. Although, I don't think I've ever heard of cross duck breeding, but I'm sure it exists somewhere. Why do you want to know?" Brittany shrugs her shoulders, motioning over towards the pond down the hill. The water is smooth as glass, bobbing figures paddling through the water casting the only ripples. Quinn smiles.

"I just want to make sure that the other ducks won't be mad, is all. I don't want the oppressing rules of their society to break up their friendship." Quinn narrows her eyes at this, Brittany bending to pick up her trowel. A light mist begins to settle around them, little beads of condensation slicking their hair.

"Is this about Santana?" Quinn looks at Brittany hard.

"Santana's not a duck, Quinn. At least, I hope she isn't, because that would be pretty messed up."

"No, but I find the parallels uncanny." She crosses her arms. Brittany purses her lips, dropping to her knees. She pushes the tarnished steel into the dirt, loosening it around the base of the weeds. She's never been any good at lying. Why even bother?

(The thing about Santana is.)

"Brittany," Quinn exhales, exasperated. How many times is she going to have to go through this with her?

"Quinn." The flash of red catches her eye, the nurse just beginning to get full on into lecture mode. A thrill passes through her as she takes in a small gasp. Little legs cling to the stem, the rounded body splotched with black spots. The blonde watches the way it crawls along the flower, stopping every so often to take in its surroundings. Is Quinn speaking? She can't really say for certain. All Brittany hears is the rush of her blood in her ears. The excited way her heart leaps. She places her finger just in front of the bug, willing it to crawl onto her.

She's met with the tickle of feelers, of little feet suctioning to her skin. Slowly, she stands and turns. Certainly the rules don't apply to the ladybug. Why should they apply to her? Why do they exist, if only to make life harder?

"—listening?"

"No, but look who I found!" Delicately, she brings her finger towards Quinn, the nurse moving away on instinct.

"This is serious."

"Do you think there are misterbugs, too?"

"No, they're all ladybugs. Brittany—"

"Does the stork deliver to them then?"

"I'm trying to have a conversation with you." The blonde blinks.

"Isn't this a conversation?"

"About Santana."

"Oh. I don't care what you have to say about Santana, Quinn. I like her, so you can talk all you want, but your words are just going to be turned into little mashed up pieces of nothing through the jaws of my ears." She makes a bridge between her fingers, the lady bug slowly making its way towards it.

"She's using you, Brittany."

"No, she's talking to me."

"To get close to Simon."

Brittany crinkles her brow. Why does it always come back to him?

"Santana doesn't even _like _Simon. Why would she want to get close to him?" Frustration paints Quinn's face in angry white blotches (Brittany doesn't think she looks very pretty when she's upset). Brittany begins to walk down the row of low hedges, brushing her hand along the top. She glances up at the deck to the right, catching the edge of dark hair and chocolate colored eyes.

They're trained upon her.

A smile breaks along her face. (Is it possible to feel completely grounded and like you're floating all at the same time?) She picks a flower, bringing it to her nose, inhaling the spicy scent of the Allspice. Yes. This color suites Santana well. She notices the troubled glance the shorter woman gives to her, motioning her eyes towards Quinn. Right. The nurse is yelling, but Brittany isn't hearing it. She begins to wander up towards the deck stairs.

"Quinn, do you remember the little creek behind the garden. The one that feeds the pond?" She doesn't really care what the nurse's answer is. She's still ignoring the heated words that keep pouring out of her mouth. She whirls around, the sky in her eye. Walking backwards, she nods her head. "I would like to go there."

"I'm being _serious_, Brittany! You need to listen to the words—"

The words fall on buzzing ears. Drunk with the name of Santana.

* * *

"I heardja fell off the band wagon and might be needin' some manly assistance." At first Santana thought she might be dreaming, that it was some cruel jab her psyche was working up. But the smell of his cheap-ass cologne mixing with the shit sweet peppermint aftershave hit her and she knew she wasn't dreaming. How many times had she told him to pony up and get the expensive shit? What else could he have been buying with all of the money she paid him? She knew the answer. And it started with Florence.

To say that she isn't relieved would be a blatant lie (not that she's opposed to the act, but it's more the principle of the matter). They stand on the deck, the large glass doors pulled tight against the creeping chill. Beautifully constructed round tables sit under the cover of the deck, as if waiting for a grand, high scale party that won't ever come. Vases of flowers sit centered upon all of them, the dropping petals littering the tops like colorful pieces of confetti. Large hanging baskets of more flowers (apparently they help to soothe) droop from the eves, casting a veil of long stems and twining ivy, the creeping green slowly beginning to overtake the outside of the large establishment. Puck leans against one of the large Victorian columns, a roguish smirk playing across his eyes, as if he finds endless amusement in her predicament.

"You're supposed to be sweeping, _patient_." He jabs his finger into her ribs. Santana glares before walking out to the railing and leaning against it, the broom left forgotten by the left most door.

"Fuck you, Puckerman," she replies with a smirk of her own. Finally. Finally someone is on her side. He's a cheap bastard, but Santana knows she can always rely upon him.

"I've tried, but hey—I won't argue if you're ready to give it up." She rolls her eyes, drinking in the grounds lighted by the white mist and drab clouds. A comfortable silence falls between them as she scans the horizon, memorizing the way the tree line spears through that even grey, ripping the canvas of the sky around the edges. Low hills roll, the grass well manicured, the gravel drive winding between lined oaks, the big thick leaves beginning to golden. A decent sized pond, complete with twisting reeds and small dock, is nestled between two hills to the left, tiny pinpricks of ducks bobbing along the surface.

To her right, the hedges of the garden start, the beautiful reds of the Carolina Allspice and purples of the lavender beginning to wilt and shrivel, preparing for winter. A beautifully regal statue of a man (who she assumes is Edgar Dalton) stands in the middle, holding in his hand an apple and a cord. A dog, forever chiseled in stone, rests at his feet. A lone willow stands on the south eastern end, just next to the glass green house. A swing hangs from one of its old branches, catching slightly in the wind. (How many swings does the wind play with?)

(If you make something wait forever, will it still be waiting when you return?)

A crop of blonde hair catches her attention.

(_"You can smother them, shoot them, knife them in the eye and they'll still _see _you."_)

(_"Made more beautiful by blood. Which is sick. It's sick."_)

Her heart catches in her chest as she watches the blonde bend over the bush, her fingers wrapping tightly around the railing. Splinters threaten to slide into her skin, but she doesn't care. Santana can almost taste the sun, can almost taste the sweet vanilla splayed across her flesh. But Brittany knows. She knows what Terri has been saying. But there is still that _something_.

"Did _abuelo_ finally figure out you're a two-bit Drugstore Cowboy with a screw loose and a fucking horrendous mop of hair—seriously though what _is _that supposed to be? It looks like you laid under a cow and let it take a shit on your scalp. Jesus Puck—or are you just in here for the crazy hooch?" Puck studies her expression, his lower lip jutting out in a small pout.

"I can't help it if them dames swoon over me like a piece of meat, Santana. Ain't nothin' wrong with a little tail…Okay a lot of tail. Because no one can resist the Puck. The sooner you accept that I am one badass handsome ace, the sooner I can show you how it's done." He smoothes his hand over his hair, his eyebrows waggling which causes her to roll her eyes again. What a goon. She drops her gaze to Brittany again, the overwhelming urge to go down the stairs and kiss the blonde sensel—she jerks, mentally slapping herself out of the fantasy. The way her insides quiver and tremble don't go unnoticed by her, however. Her cheeks burn red.

Quinn is yelling, but her words are swallowed by the distance, muffled within the clinging mist. Santana runs a hand through her hair, setting her jaw firmly. Seriously, what is Quinn's problem?

"What're you doing here, shit stain?" God, does she wish she had a glass of bourbon.

"I'm lookin' after ya."

"You mean you're doing your job for once?"

"Yeah, except this time there ain't any peanuts for me to eat."

"You and those damn nuts."

"What can I say, I'm a sucker for them."

"Maybe there's just something you're keeping from all of us." He lets the comment drift between them. Santana hears his heavy chuckle.

"He wants me to keep an eye on you."

"Like he doesn't have that pussy-sucking cunt St. James doing it for him already?" She snorts.

"You know as well as I do that he don't trust Jesse as far as he can throw him."

"Great analogy, Puck, considering I'm pretty sure we have a man for that." Bitterness sweeps over her. How can he do this? How can he sit by and place his only granddaughter into the hands of people just as crazy as the women they claim to help?

"He wanted to send Finn—"

"Oh great, why not just sign my death certificate instead?" Brittany is leaning in close to the shrub now, her face inches from one of the flowers. Quinn is bristling beside her, anger the only salvageable thing from her (probably long winded and self righteous) speech.

"That's what I said. At least _I _know you ain't ever gonna change."

"Jesus Puck, please tell me that by some random miracle that you kept your stupid mouth shut and didn't tell him that." She shoots him an angry glare. That's the last thing she needs. To be stuck here for the rest of her life.

"What do you take me for, a fall guy?"

"No, that would be too convenient." And nothing is ever too easy. Her gaze drifts back to Brittany, the blonde still crouched over the shrub. "Oh I'm sorry _abeulo_," she begins in a mockingly innocent voice. Channeling her inner Rachel, Santana brings a hand to her chest, her eyelashes fluttering madly. "It may have looked like me elbow deep in that beautiful, whorish slug, but it was really only Puck dressed in my clothes. He's a Nancy you see, and this is the only way he can get his rocks off. But please don't be cross with him. He only wants to shoot his spunk." She rolls her eyes. The thing Santana likes best about Puck is his laugh. The way it starts in his throat, then moves to deep in his chest, his shoulders rolling forward. It's a whole body ordeal, one that he never does half heartedly.

"I think St. James would still be pissed."

"He's just jealous that he can't get her to moan like that. It might help if he knew where to find her fucking clit." She remembers green eyes and broken pianos, guilt cropping up within her throat.

"No! Are you serious?"

"As Germany." Another silence falls, Brittany finally straightening herself up, her finger suddenly inches within Quinn's face. Santana revels in the way the nurse takes a couple hasty steps back, her hands thrown out in defense. It's everything. Everything Brittany. And Santana can't help the way the blonde has nailed herself to her chest. There's a crinkle beneath her eyes, she knows, a mischievous glimmer hidden within the iris. She knows the way Brittany will give Quinn a breathy chuckle, the sound like water to someone dying of thirst. Knows the ghosted smile (_her smile_) that plays along the edges of something barely unbroken.

There's magnetism there, something that she just can't resist. She knows. But she doesn't have to try right now. Right now, she's standing on the deck, with Puck behind her and Brittany safely out of desire's reach. The corners of her mouth pull and she tries to ignore the way her lips twitch. But Santana breaks out a smile, chocolate eyes liquid molten as they watch the blonde below.

Puck takes the few steps and leans next to her, following her gaze. "Oh. Oh, what's this?" He jabs his finger towards hazel eyes and sunshine, that sharkish expression returning to his face. "Who're those two hotties, please tell me you've turned your oh-so-charming Santana wiles on them. For me." Anger bubbles tugging against the warmth that Brittany's easy smile ignites.

When she doesn't reply, Puck snaps his head towards her, his eyes alight with childish excitement. "You have! Which one. Was it the nurse, Santana? I know how you love a woman in uniform." Can she slap him? Is it against the rules to slap him if she pays him? "Or was it the blonde?" Santana's skin begins to heat hotter. She can almost see the steam beginning to rise off of her arms, fury beginning to beat at the back of her eye lids. "Oh man, look at those gams. Man, I wouldn't mind getting her int—"

She punches him, close fist, in the arm. Hard. As hard as she can. He reels back from the unexpected contact, his hand rubbing over his bicep, his face twisting into a scowl, mirroring her own. "Shit, Santana, what was that for?"

"Do you know how God awful this place is, Puck? I have to share a table with manhands Berry who thinks she's God's gift to the fucking world, a goddamn chink who can't keep her eyes still in her head, even if she wanted, a nosey pickaninny who looks like she might very well cream me up and eat me, all the while avoiding fold-scrubbing Sue and spunk-munching St. James. And now I have to add a lazy lounge lizard to my growing menagerie of attractions." She spits venom, winding up to hit him again. Santana does when his smirk appears back onto his face, realization flashing through his beady, stupid eyes.

"Oh my God, Santana! _It is_! It's the blonde! Oh please tell me. How good is she? Does she taste like little bits of cream and apple fritters?" She punches him again, her knuckles beginning to tingle lightly. His gaze falls over her left shoulder, his grin widening.

"Don't you dare, Puckerman. I will take my foot and shove it so far up your ass, you'll tas—" A hand slips down her arm, familiar fingers burning around her skin. Vanilla, snap peas and the smell of fresh dirt drugs Santana's words, her head spiking, heart thrumming happily in her chest.

"—ny! Jesus Christ, sugar." Quinn is yelling. "You've got to stop doing this!"

The snake in the pit of her stomach coils, hissing with desire, flicking its tongue lightly to stoke her center. Fingers wind in her own, the littlest one catching. A chest presses itself into her arm, soft and firm, gently pushing against her with little breaths. Santana ignores the way Puck wags his eyebrows, his sharkish grin turning darker.

"Do you think there are misterbugs for the ladybugs, Santana? Quinn won't answer me." Puck barks with laughter as the dark haired Latina turns to her. The hazel eyed nurse glares at him, motioning towards the two.

"Don't just stand there, you idiot!"

"Oh, let your skirts down," he replies, rolling his eyes.

"I think," Santana hesitates, ignoring the other two in her presence. What should she say? This girl. This crazy girl. Saying the funniest things. "There are misterladybugs?" Puck's eyes burn into her, much as Rachel's eyes had that morning. The flush spread along her skin deepens.

"Ladies dressed as misters, then?" Brittany peeks up at her, _something_ hidden in her eye. Santana's stomach clenches, nerves trying to eat her alive.

"You're an orderly, _do something_!" Quinn hisses.

"Ah, bluebell over there just wants ta get ta know Santana, sugar lips. Can't say I ain't blamin' her."

Santana's eyes curve over Brittany's face, stopping and pressing imaginary pecks upon each freckle, mapping routes along the bridge of her nose. Across her plunging lips. Loose strands of blonde hair fall into Brittany's forehead, frayed and frizzed from the moisture in the air. They catch in her eyelash, threatening to hide the stars from Santana. She gently reaches up, pushing the strands back, her finger tips grazing her skin (soft), guiding the blonde offenders towards Brittany's ear. She isn't sure if she imagines it, but feels white skin heat up. Feels Brittany tilt into her palm, her eyes fluttering.

"It's not appropriate."

"Well, in case you ain't figured it out yet, appropriateness don't much matter to Santana. She gets what she wants. I ain't gonna have her rip my tongue out 'n feed it to no goat just 'cause of somethin' I said." A smile breaks across her face. Puck continues to lean, his arms crossed, his eyebrows raised in a matter-of-fact way. "I seen her do it."

"Did you really?" There's no fear, only curiosity.

"Asshole had it coming." Santana averts her gaze, letting her hand drop from the side of Brittany's face, embarrassment streaking her cheeks.

"Oh no, did he try to kiss the goat?"

"Uh…"

"You're one of _hers_?!" Quinn shrieks, cutting off the murky lie Santana had been about to fabricate.

Brittany holds her left hand up, Santana not missing the way blue eyes cloud at Quinn's shriek. Or the way the blonde glances over towards Puck, a slight crease appearing between her eyebrows. What does that mean? It's like she smells something unpleasant. Santana will be the first to slap that cheap ass for his choice in overly pungent scents, but for some reason, her gut twists with suspicion. Santana suspects Brittany has never looked at anyone like that. Or in the very least not in the time Santana's known her (which admittedly hasn't been too long).

"Oh, she's been talking about me? I'm so flattered!"

Red petals, still wet with dew and condensation are inches away from her face, veiling Brittany's lips, reflecting red streaks within her endless blue eyes. "You're not supposed to kiss goats," she chides before slipping her finger out of Santana's. Her heart sinks at the lost contact, disappointment nearly crushing her. Before static sparks along her temple, fingers brushing through her hair, nails dragging along her scalp teasingly.

"Nope," Santana replies lamely. Her own words rattle like beans in a can within her mouth.

"Don't think I don't know what you're up to." Quinn is inches away from Puck, her finger almost to his nose.

"Would you like to see something?" Brittany's voice is thick (or is that her imagination?), her fingers still drawing aching arcs of static along Santana's scalp.

Goosebumps rip along her arms, the hairs on the back of her neck charged with the intense heat, her body thrumming. Something damp and cool rests along the top ridge of her ear, her loose hair pulled back behind it, fingers gently tracing the outer contour of her flesh. Her breath hitches. Pupils dilate. Probably her own. But Brittany's as well. She chokes down a groan.

"Stop everything, we have an every day Nancy Drew here. Call the press. The media! Nurse Fabray has got it bad!"

Long fingers drop, linking their fingers together once again.

"Oh please, don't make me laugh, Puckerman."

Santana can basically _hear _the eye roll in Quinn's scoff. (If it were any other circumstance, in any other place, Santana is certain they would be friends.) Secret smiles and bright blue glances tug at her heart, Brittany shrugging her shoulders, decidedly pulling them both back towards the stairs to the garden.

"How did you know my name?"

She almost wishes to stay, just to hear the rest of their argument, but only almost. With blue eyes guiding her and raindrops peppering her skin, she follows, snickering at the last curtail of Quinn's rebuff.

"It's on your shirt, you fucking idiot."

Damp grass licks up her ankles, ripples of anticipation echoing through her veins. She stares hard at the back of Brittany's head, half wondering if they'll get into trouble for this, but mostly not caring.

"I like the garden," the blonde says, shooting Santana a lazy smile.

_You're beautiful_.

She squeezes Brittany's finger tighter. She shouldn't let this keep going on. Doesn't she want to get better? That's never going to happen. It's a fact. One that she accepted days ago when she saw porcelain skin bathing in silver light.

"It's full of bugs."

"That's the best part! Just think of all the little bug families that live in the shrubs, being all cozy and homey with each other, giving cups of sugar to their neighbors and having picnics out by the pond!" Santana can't help the smile. In fact, she can't help anything when it comes to Brittany.

Brittany, Brittany, Brittany.

"Over in that corner," Brittany motions towards the West, "there is a little family of mice. The daddy's name is Henry, the mama's name is Anne and the little baby mice are Mary, Elizabeth, Catherine and Edward." Santana crinkles her brow, nodding her head to the rapid succession of names. "Henry is sort of mean. If Lord Tubs was here, boy would he show him."

"How long have you been here?" An unreadable expression crosses Brittany's face. The smile falls from Santana, a chill beginning to work its way up through her palm. A light breeze drifts through the garden, passing through her clothing like it's nothing.

"I don't know." It's a sad confession, one that Brittany says with a shrug. They pass by the willow tree, the long branches gently brushing the grass.

"Well…where have you been the past three days?"

"Three days?"

"Yeah. Did something happen?" Concern and confusion washes over Brittany's features, Santana noting the way her jaw tightens and relaxes at regular intervals.

"I…don't know."

"How can you _not know_?" She asks before she can stop herself.

Instantly she regrets her forwardness. Walls seem to materialize, masking the blonde. A hollow whistle pushes against the murky glass of the green house. It sets Santana on edge. Moss clings to the base, where no one had bothered enough to clean it up, a murky green film presses against the windows, making it look dark. Making it look foreboding. Before she can protest, Brittany twists the handle, pulling them both inside, the sticky humid air hitting her straight in the face.

It smells like green, if green had a smell. Like rotting plants and dying things. Of soil and rain. There are two rows on either side of them, of plants and wilted flowers, their tops all drooping lazily.

"I try to take care of them," she says sadly, dropping Santana's finger from her own. "They were left and forgotten when I first came here." (Abandoned.)

And it's in this moment, with filtered light pooling down around them and humidity clinging to her hair (how is she supposed to deal with it now?) that Santana realizes what this is. She clears her throat, as she moves past Brittany, trying to ignore the way that their hips brush, the way she feels fingers ghosted along the small of her back.

"Well it certainly looks like you're doing a piss poor job at it," she tries to keep the harshness out of her words, but knows that they're naturally saturated in them. Brittany tenses. "But," she lets a smile drop onto her lips, her hands resting lightly on her hips as she turns to look at Brittany. "They're happy."

Sheen sparks in blue eyes. "You think so?"

"Well I don't think so, they said so." She motions her hand towards the flowers. "They said, the picky shits they are, that they need more light. This haze is horrible for their skin."

"I knew you weren't a duck!" A duck? What? Santana tilts her head to the side, eyebrows crinkled in confusion. Before she can dwell on it for too long though, Brittany bridges the gap between them, wrapping her into a long, warm hug. Her knees buckle, little white splotches erupting in her vision. She vibrates against her, surreptitiously running her nose against the taller girl's neck, drinking in her closeness. Indulging in her scent. Santana leans in closer, wanting to press her lips to Brittany's throat. Wanting to feel the way it bobs and moves with her words.

Desire pricks at her, the coil growing tighter.

She could just do it. Take her. And everything. She could just—Santana snaps back, nearly hitting the top of her head against Brittany's jaw. She untangles herself, aware of the questioning glance that follows her. Aware of the eyes that watch through dark windows. She moves to the opposite end of the green house, suddenly incredibly invested in a rotted shovel.

Why does it have to be Simon _Colt_?

"Corpse fucking prick. Fucking _Simon_." She isn't even aware that she's muttering until Brittany grabs her wrist. What she finds is wounded eyes. Santana feels as though she's been splayed open, her chest cavity empty and hollow for the world to see. She snaps her jaw shut, giving the blonde a hard look before repeating, "Fucking _Simon_."

"Don't say his name."

"But this is—He is—" Brittany presses fingers to Santana's lips. The tingling along her flesh intensifies. She can feel those fingers crawling along her flesh. Santana bites back another wave of desire. Anger, at herself, at Simon and fucking Puck, mixes.

"Don't." And she can't help but do as she asks. Can't help but fall into those eyes. The ones made for her. Even if Brittany doesn't know it yet. Won't ever know it. (Because how do you tell the sun you need it?)

"I _hate_ him, Brittany."

"Why?"

"Because you."

"I'm not him."

"No, I _know that_." How to explain. But that _something else_ in Brittany's eye, swimming like a fish around the iris, it scares Santana. This could all go sideways so fast, endangering herself. Endangering Brittany.

"Hate is a strong word, Santana."

"Yes and I _hate_ him."

"Why, though?"

"Because you're beautiful." She says it angrily. She turns away again, picking up a crusty old piece of canvas. Anything to get her mind off of the bitter conversation at hand. A darkness lifts like vapor from her shoulders. She pulls the canvas across the dirty window, the grime coming away with an easy swipe. Dull, grey sunlight pours in, the stream of unfiltered light piercing down like a wave of freshness. Santana's chest tightens.

Fingers wrap around Santana's forearm, turning her about. Anger still beats at her, trying to win out over the overwhelming desire, but she finds herself in a losing battle. It's Brittany. A woman she met days ago. A woman who is so intrinsically good that she _names mice_ and takes care of them. A woman who adopts the lost, forgotten misfits of the world and gives them a purpose. A woman she's known for twelve hours.

How can she, Santana Lopez, win against this force? (How can she do this to Brittany in return?)

(She doesn't know the way the blonde's heart is trying to force itself out of her chest.)

Tears rim blue eyes and Santana feels her emotions flare, threatening to drown her in their violent rip tide. She needs to protect this girl, fuck Quinn. She can't see Brittany cry. Santana drops the canvas, bringing her hands to cup the girl's cheeks, her thumbs brushing away the liquid star drops, bringing their faces closer. Ragged, silent sobs break beneath Santana's hands, beautiful Brittany breath torn to shreds in her hitching chest.

She just needs for Brittany to stop crying. To rip the broken pieces out of those eyes and put them back together. If she can't do that, then what good is she? She doesn't have time to think. Doesn't have time to breathe. Doesn't have time to say anything.

Not before Santana is already leaning forward, desire ultimately winning. Not before she tastes the sunshine, freckles so close she can nearly count them. And when their lips meet, Santana feels it through every nerve in her body. Down to her bones. The way her soft lips fit, catching each other at just the perfect angle. The way she swallows her hum. The way the sobs break over her. She tastes sunshine, vanilla and tears. _Tears_. Brittany trembles beneath her and Santana wills herself to move. To move away. Not like this. It isn't supposed to happen with her crying. But who's she kidding? She's Santana Lopez.

So she does what Santana Lopez does best.

(What she thinks she was always meant to do.)

She twines her fingers into Brittany's golden hair and presses their lips closer.

* * *

(_"The thing about women is they'll always disappoint you."_)

* * *

**Author's Note: Well hello there! Welcome to another weekly installment of Strange Fruit, I shall be your host this evening. There are cocktails in the parlor and you may give your coats to my manservant. :D**

**Anyway, enough of that. So, I came to understand maybe a few of you were confused by the Simon thing last chapter. I'm sorry for the confusion: Santana knows Simon Colt. She isn't shocked by Brittany being married, but rather **_**who**_** she's married to. Just some clarification. (Also, I'll be going more in detail about the man in the upcoming chapters. I don't wanna reveal everything in just one huge block of everything.)**

**You know, I have this little timeline in my head about how things are supposed to go down in certain chapters, but I find that my chapters just keep getting longer and longer. So. I mean, I guess that's good for you guys, right? Just know that this is **_**supposed **_**to be a fifteen chapter story (roughly). I get the impression that it might push outside of that box.**

**Well, what do you all think? I'd really like to know. In fact I love to hear what you guys have to say, it's usually the highlight of my day. What did you think of the ending of this chapter? Good? Bad? RIGHT IN THE FEELS? Review (or don't) (but really do ;-;)! Or PM me if you have any particular questions.**

**Special shout out to my beautifully charming beta Swinging Cloud. Because if it's not apostrophes, it's commas. (Also because she sent me a string of like 20 texts in all caps after she finished. It was really great.) And thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, lurked, followed, faved, loved and hated this story. You guys are the best!**

**Till next week, I bid you adieu. /heart **


	6. Green

**Warning: Probably horrible Spanish contained within. Proceed with caution. [Also, if anyone knows Spanish and would like to be my Spanish beta, that would be pretty rad, or else I'm just going to keep winging that shit like it's 2012.]**

* * *

**Chapter 6: Green**

_Pastoral scene of the gallant south_

The humidity is thick, weaving into her crisp, golden locks. Mixing with fingers. Tears continue to creep down her face, the endless vastness splitting her chest open filled to the brink with warmth for the first time since she can remember. Lips, soft and crisp, taste like smoked cinnamon, as she expected, but the underlying hint of something tasteless lingers there as well.

What is that?

The shock to her system subsides, her nerves bursting with the taste of Santana, Santana, Santana. Her head is swimming and she briefly wonders where it strokes to. She hadn't meant to start crying. But something inside of Brittany broke (fixed) when _You're beautiful_ pressed between full, angry lips. When Santana turned away, her shoulders hunched, her attention grasping at something other than the hellfire flame licking against the side of her face. _Don't turn away_, she had begged. (If she turned away, Brittany felt like she might die.)

She notices it now, the way the color deepens upon the raven haired woman's cheeks, the way she whimpers softly into her own flesh, marking her. Scarring her. Her heart throbs mouse-quick within her chest, so hard she's scared Santana might feel it against her own breast. Finger nails drag lightly against her scalp, ripples of pleasure erupting in their wake.

Brittany shakes, not sure what she should be doing. Every ounce of her desires this, to be as close as possible to the cinnamon beauty, but anxiety begins to grip at her again, the chasm in her chest growing darker and colder with each passing second. Grey whispers pull at the edge of her, starting as white hot needles pressing against her flesh.

_Do you even remember him anymore?_

She remembers a dark room in December. The cat under the porch had just died, its bloated body left to freeze in the frigid air. He didn't like cats.

_The way he tastes?_

The cigarette stained his tongue, a dark surly tone to his words as he placed a hand against the hollow of her throat, fingers rough.

_His eyes?_

He had just thrown his tumbler of dark brandy against the wall. The shards scattered like marbles, a dark stain seeping into the woodwork. His eyes had stormed, stripping the flesh straight from her bones.

Her breath comes short, hands trembling as she grips the collar of Santana's shirt.

_Yes. You do remember, don't you?_

She remembers the haunting pieces of green glass dancing from the strings of a chime. The way a hand sliced into her throat. The way ash had filled her mouth, the tips of her fingers scrambling to find purchase in the flesh of his back. Liquid pulled away with her nails

She pushes Santana away, her knuckles white. No. Not with these words. Not with these memories. She's not those things. She's not dark stains and rough hands. Not blood beneath her finger nails, or fingers against her throat. She doesn't want Santana to be those things (she never will be).

Dark eyes rob her breath, hurt and shame harsh in the center of Santana's iris. Words stutter in Brittany's throat, urgency causing her tongue to fumble. "N-no it's not, p-please don't—" She grips Santana by the arms, her muscles tense and unyielding beneath her palms.

"That was stupid." Santana's voice is full, the muscles along her jaw twitching. (Brittany wishes to brush her fingers there, but fears that should she let go of Santana's arms, the world will drop from beneath her.) A lingering flush kisses against dark skin, the heat of anger quickly biting down upon it.

"N-no, Santana—"

Strong arms rip out of her grasp, silken material slick against the burn of her fingers. _They always leave_. The unfiltered light separates them like the expanse of the ocean. An invisible, impassable mass. The low patter of rain against glass strikes against all that Brittany is, pushing her deeper and deeper back into that chasm, seeking the warmth that had suddenly been ripped away.

(Will her flesh burn if she breaks the sun's unfiltered waves?)

_They always come back. Always._

A vicious scowl creases the lines on Santana's face, her body whipping around. (Brittany can almost see her heart beating through the white of her shirt.) A gasp passes between clenched teeth and buzzing lips (still drunk off of Santana, Santana, Santana), her heart threatening to twist itself free from the coronary within her still bottomless chest.

(How was she supposed to find it then?)

The smolder darkens around shoulders, snapping like the jaws of a snake, curling lightly around her jet black locks. It isn't stupid. The thrum of Santana's lips burn their way into the back of her mind, the way they locked. The way they pressed. More tears sting her puffy eyes as she watches her retreating back, thick gobs of gravel caught in her throat, threatening to slide down and rest, forever, in the acid of her stomach.

So she does the only logical thing.

(She's never been a wanting girl, Brittany Pierce. But when she does, it nearly always consumes her.)

_Until all that's left is ash and dark satins and green glass chiming in the distance._

Santana's at the door, the threshold twisting and warping with curled smoke, the metal groaning to contain all that is her. Her hand twists, and Brittany feels it deep within her stomach. Something low ignites. And realization nearly blinds her.

"I don't want this to be for _Simon_." The blonde spits his name, a piece of gravel seeming to lift from within her closing airways. The seeds of doubt, sewn by Quinn, gnaw at her. Caramel hands hesitate and that's all she needs. "Because you're not Simon, Santana."

The shameful roil of shadows seem to calm upon her shoulders. Santana leans her head a little, a veil of black tresses falling to cover her eyes. But she is listening.

"You're not Simon, and I don't know how to handle that." Brittany twists her hands, her fingers rolling the ring upon her finger. She passes through the wedged sunlight, the patter of rain nearly deafening now. She doesn't look up for the world, her eyes nearly burning a hole in the back of Santana's head.

"What _is this_, Brittany?" Santana hisses.

The question hangs between them. Brittany doesn't know the answer, but does she have to? She doesn't know a lot of things, like how to tie a proper knot or how to sail a boat. And she still doesn't know that Rome exists other than through ink on a page (maybe it's not a page at all, but rather a glimpse into another world entirely). Her eyebrows knit as she grasps, the sensation of millions of little wings beating against the inside of her stomach.

"This is a greenhouse," she starts. She takes a step forward. "A greenhouse with dirty, black windows and prissy plants that refuse to talk to me and a rotting shovel that smells like Lord Tubbington's belly." She catches dark eyes this time. She takes another step.

"You know what I mean."

"A greenhouse that's not actually green, but rather more yellow than anything, with no kings or queens or anything presidenting and making rules and excuses."

(She likes the color yellow.)

Step.

"A greenhouse where I don't know all of the answers, but don't have to. Because Rome is as real as any book, and a lion's fur is soft because there is more." She says the last sentence more pointedly, a sour frown tugging her lips. Swollen lips tug into a smile.

"And it's simply that." Santana finishes bitterly. (_Simply wonderful_.) Tones wrapped in smoke lift to her, causing her to close the distance, her fingers twining themselves in Santana's limp ones. Warmth fills inside of her again, her free hand running against her cheeks to brush away tears.

Brittany gently lays a hand around Santana's wrist, pulling it away from the door handle. Ideas and thoughts come fleetingly, flicking behind her eyes as she leans down to try to catch the dark pools of _everything_. She falls into them, Santana's chin slowly rising, fear gripping the beautiful brown, lacing it with hints of amber. Brittany doesn't think she's ever looked so beautiful. A light sheen beads along caramel flesh, the humidity sticky and hard to roll on the tongue. Black locks curl at the ends, the scent of cinnamon seeping into everything she knows.

Burns, deep in her stomach, scorch within her muscles, pump her tendons, her blood replaced with liquid fire. What is it they used to say about the Faerie Queene? _For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought._ Her lips begin to buzz, her eyes half lidded. It's okay. It's okay if it's like this, in a yellow greenhouse, with questions gripping her spine. With her fingers twined between Santana's (she suspects that's where they were always meant to be) and bitter words still hanging between them.

It seems like the right thing to do when she presses her fingers against soft, red lips, Terri's words still marring her like melted eyes and gaping mouths. Like script glowing beneath her smooth flesh. They smart, but Brittany doesn't allow herself to dwell (never to dwell), the shaky breaths against the pads of her fingers grounding her. (She wonders if her fingerprints burn into Santana's lips.)

(They do.)

Dark eyes, still guarded, drift along her face, brushing against her cheeks, dusting them with a heat Brittany didn't know existed. It borders upon maddening and soothing, her heart slowly worming its way up her throat. She slides her fingers down to Santana's chin, trailing her fingers around her jaw, an involuntary twitch sparking under dark eyes. A nagging question tingles on the back of her throat. One that refuses to be smothered.

Pressure along her hip elicits a new sparking wave of curiosity. Strong hands. _But not rough hands_. She trails her index finger back around to curl under Santana's chin, _something else_ guiding her actions. She tilts Santana's face up, a shiver running straight to the quick of her, throbbing like the beat of waves. Red lips part in anticipation, brown eyes so dark they're almost black.

_He'll know._

_He always does._

Brittany stifles a small gasp as she brings her face closer, giving her head a small shake, trying to rid the whispers cropping up at the base of her neck. If Santana notices, she doesn't say anything. (She couldn't even if she wanted to, her mind a blanket of white-hot light.) She brushes her nose close to the other woman's, the intimacy of sharing the same breath beginning to claw at her ribs. Brittany's skin sparks with static, aware of everything. Aware of nothing all at once.

A ghosted kiss already upon her lips, she can feel the way Santana trembles, the way her lips move ever so closely to her own. All Brittany has to do is tip forward just a little. Just a little and taste smoked red. A red so dark it burns cinnamon. Cinnamon only for her. (_Only for her_.) Santana's throat moves against her fingers, a strangled whimper caught in a perpetual limbo.

"…ny…" God. It nags in the background.

But she's so close. So close, and she's never wanted anything more.

"…ny Pier…"

The muscles in Santana's jaw twitch.

"I…do that…Quinn!"

Her eyes snap open. She forgot. For three seconds she forgot about Quinn. Forgot that she's married. Forgot about Simon. Because the only thing in the room was dark eyes and shared spaces. She sees the alarm in Santana's eyes.

Neither of them move.

"Go away, Puck!"

Just one more millimeter. Santana's breath tickles her face, curls of black hair brushing against her cheeks. Is she still crying? Brittany isn't even certain.

"Someone's gotta hold Santana back from beatin' that pretty little face of yours senseless!"

And all at once, it comes crashing down.

Hands flee from her hip, Santana taking a few stumbling steps backwards. In her panic, her elbow bites back sharply against one of the waist high tables, the wilted orchid crashing to the brick laid ground and shattering in a burst of dark soil and deep violet ribbons. Brittany reaches (reaching, always reaching) towards her.

Is she hurt?

Santana flinches.

It feels as though a hook plunges itself into Brittany's chest, serrated edges maiming the flesh and sawing her in two uneven pieces. _Don't be stupid, girl._

_She can't help it._

_She was born that way._

_Stupid._

The door throws itself open, Quinn framed in the threshold, an amused Puck peering over her shoulder. The starched white of her uniform clings to her body, the water running like rivers through the folds in her clothing. The cool wind whips through the greenhouse, threatening to strangle the plants until they're nothing more than husks.

Quinn's not stupid.

Her gaze drops to Brittany's red eyes and flushed skin, noting the way Santana's dark flesh burns under a blue sun. And Quinn knows things just got more complicated. She opens her mouth stepping towards Santana a dour cloud hanging over her shoulders. She wants to scream at her, tell her all the ways that this is wrong, but finds her resolve weakening when she looks back towards Brittany.

The blonde gathers her bottom lip between her teeth, her hands twisting continually at her stomach. The tension in the air snaps, almost as suffocating as the humidity. What can she tell Quinn? She's never been a good liar, and somehow, she feels it would be an injustice to lie about what this is. Her gaze wanders back to the broken flower pot, Santana's hands gripping the side of the table until her knuckles are white.

_Touch her_.

But she can't.

The taste of ash drops down upon her shoulders like a lead weight, shackling her to an invisible force, unwilling to bend. Brittany slowly falls to her knees, tentative fingers beginning to gather the shards of red clay, carefully placing them in a neat pile. Her mouth twists into a smile as she glances up.

The shuffle of feet and Santana has pushed herself away from the plants (away from Brittany), shame still gripping her iris. For once, a razor tongue is dulled. She blows by Quinn, the trails of a hurricane snapping upon her heels.

The honey blonde nurse stares incredulously after the dark haired woman, Puck quickly turning to follow. Is it so wrong that Santana makes her feel happy? That a heat pricks its way along her spine, fueling her with things she never thought to exist? Does it mean something? She isn't sure. What is feeling other than a clump of nerves firing beneath her flesh?

_It's everything_.

She can feel hazel eyes watching her expectantly. Patient. She knows Quinn will stand there all day if she has to. Her tongue, still tingling with want, presses against her teeth. Brittany feels small against the twilight of rain. (Each droplet is an unspoken confession. Each peal of thunder an accusation.) "She tripped," is all she can manage before her throat closes up.

Conflicted, Quinn doesn't know what to say. She crosses the distance (almost the expanse of an ocean) and places her hand upon a trembling shoulder.

* * *

_Stupid_.

How could she be so naïve?

Brittany had frozen in her grasp, her lips (while heavenly) dead and unresponsive. She had gone somewhere else, somewhere far away. The stars had dropped from the black canvas of her universe eyes, landing somewhere between _now _and _then_. Did she misread the signs?

But the way Brittany had approached her at the threshold of the door. It was with desperation. Desperation for _something she didn't understand_. (The concept of darkness is foreign to the sun, where nothing can help but burn so brilliantly white that no shadows exist.)

(How do you explain the concept of nothingness to something that merely _exists_?)

The crystalline fractures reflected in dark blue pools scared Santana. The way Brittany touched her jaw. Tangled their fingers. Inhaled her very essence. The way she made her drunk with utter disregard to control. (Her world is built upon controlled chaos.) The way she so desperately needs to fix it. To fix everything. It still pools deep within her chest, forcing the air out of her lungs, replacing it with a searing pain with each breath she pulls in.

Rain hisses against her burning skin, shivers spidering along her spine (she thinks it's from the cold, but remembers lingering touches and knows it's not). Wet grass teases against her ankles, the peal of distant thunder mimicking the pounding of her heart. Santana is barely aware of the way Puck follows behind her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, rivers of rain pouring down his face, his lips set in a grim scowl. She wants to slap him. To feel his muscles spasm beneath her palms as she claws at them. Wants to scream until her throat is bloody and then fall into a puddle upon a harsh, concrete floor.

Only because.

Only because she has to blame someone. If she doesn't, Santana will have to blame herself, and she's not strong enough for that. If it's not Puck, it's Simon. If it's not Simon, it's Jesse.

Jesse.

His name, like coals, is red hot behind her eyes. She clenches her fists, making towards the porch stairs, her nails biting half moon ravines within the valley of her palm. _He's _making her crazy. _He's_ the one behind this whole fucking mess.

(_"They're like animals, Santi. Not like us. We know how we'll die and it won't be by the hand of some sniveling bitch."_)

She climbs the stairs, her foot slipping upon the third step, knees slamming into the wood hard before she catches herself. Santana pulls herself up in a fluid motion, the spiking pain barely registering in the back of her mind. Devoured by the rage quickly consuming her. She thinks Puck says something, but his words are swallowed by the rush of blood in her ear. By her screaming thoughts. (If she listens now, she'll fall apart.)

The outside of her vision begins to blur, black bleeding towards the center. _Twelve hours_. Twelve hours and four days. That's all it takes? She grits her teeth, grabbing the handle of the smudged glass door, ripping it open with all her force and half hoping it shatters when it slams into the wall (it doesn't).

"Santana!" Puck, all too aware of the women currently milling about the common room just to the left of them, grabs her wrist. Her skin burns him, his fingers like ice. Puck nearly pulls his hand away at the prickling sensation, but resists. He's not a particularly sharp man, but he knows when enough is enough. "Calm down," he urges. He doesn't want to have to do it, but he will restrain her, if necessary. He catches the eyes of another orderly standing stupidly next to the bay windows. He wears a mask of concern, his eyes wide, mouth shaped in a small 'o.'

Puck motions for him, pointing heatedly towards Santana.

She doesn't notice, however.

Most of the women part, getting as close to the walls as humanly possible, their eyes downcast, avoiding the obviously irate Latina. Their mumbles pass to deaf ears, her goal merely a couple doors down the hall and to the left. _You can't make this about him,_ a voice of reason chimes. She wishes more than anything for darkness to strangle it.

_It was _your _stupidity that got you into this mess. Not him_.

Anger slowly rubs its way from her muscles, disappointment beginning to swoop in to take its place. No. This would have never happened if he would have kept his nose out of her business. What was it Quinn said? Family business is family business? The tide of ire pushes back against the creeping crush of self damnation.

She grips her fists tighter, her bones creaking in protest. Her joints ache, her knuckles pulling her skin so taut, she briefly worries if her skin is giving way to the white of bone. Her feet slam against the white tiles, as if she's crushing thousands of tiny people beneath the soles, the muscles in her neck corded and strained.

The white walls, sand blasted within her vision, feeding into a hallway that seems to stretch for miles. A hand brushes against her bicep, Santana's head snapping around to glare at her offender. Rachel, dark eyes pulsing and ridiculously large mouth poised to open, quickly withdraws, suddenly fearing for her limb. A smug satisfaction settles in the pit of Santana's stomach.

"Out of my way, cinder soot." Her voice is toxic, lifting from between her lips like acid. Rachel's mouth shuts with an audible snap. (Rachel Berry isn't a religious woman, but she isn't so sure the Devil doesn't exist within the dark haired Latina.) Rachel glances towards Puck, his hand still helplessly upon her wrist.

"Santana, don't make me do it," he warns. He pulls back on her wrist again, this time causing her steps to falter. She whips around, her features dark.

"Fucking let me go, Puck, or not even your mother will recognize you," she says, voice low. Her body stands like a statue, all eyes curiously trained upon her. She notices the oafish orderly approaching.

"What happened?" His voice is dropped to a murmured whisper. Her skin is still flushed red (the lingering touches of Brittany still drill into her flesh). A knife has buried itself deep into her iris, slashing at the dark brown, leaving only hurt behind. Puck's eyes widen, mostly out of fear.

"_Nothing_."

"Bullshit." (Rachel gasps.) "I ain't never seen you…" he drops his voice lower so the last word is almost inaudible. "…hurt."

"Santana," the oafish orderly appears over Puck's shoulder, the bands anchoring her to whatever rational thought she had left beginning to pull. "You're causing a scene." He looks around nervously, speaking out the side of his mouth as if he's being sneaky.

"_YOU, ABUELO SENT YOU, TOO?_" Sound rips at her vocal cords, her words echoing endlessly down the hallway. If anyone is less privy to sharing her time of vulnerability, it's Finn Hudson. The darkness waning inside of her twists to a new goal. Him. Destroy him.

"We're here to protect y—"

"A bucket full of whale lard hardly qualifies as protection, you incompetent idiot!" She rips her wrist out of Puck's grasp, advancing upon Finn, eyes like black coal.

"Oh shit," Puck mumbles. He regrets not mentioning Finn earlier.

"What are you going to do? Huh? Babble at _Icepick _until he shrivels and goes away? Because that's all you're good for! Maybe he'll do us all a favor and lobotomize you, but let's face it—it probably wouldn't actually do anything. Everyone knows you only use a fraction of your pea sized brain. Jesus, just standing next to you makes my brain cells commit suicide!"

"Why do you have to be such a bitch all the time?"

"Why do you have to be so gelatinous?"

"I'm here trying to make sure that you're taken care of and all you can think to say is not a 'Thank you,' but rather that I'm fat?"

"Maybe it's because I don't like the way you mouth breathe all over the place."

"Get a hold of yourself, Santana! I'm not the one fucking other men's dames!"

A chill.

His words bounce along the halls, hitting her at all angles, bruising along her cheeks, wrapping fingers around her throat. They all stare. Hundreds upon hundreds of eyes scouring every inch of her body. Deep pockets of sulfur fill her lungs, the backs of her eyes stinging. She tastes copper, the sudden tang of metallic harsh against her tongue.

And that's it.

The bands snap.

She lunges, poised to go straight for the face, her fingers ready to make melon balls out of his beady, little eyes. A snarl rips from her throat when she is met with resistance, arms strong as steel, gripping around her waist. She wants to scream at Puck, wants to make him understand what he's just done. But the words die as soon as they touch the tip of her tongue, instead vulgarities replacing all.

Finn takes a step back, cowering behind his forearms, bracing himself for her attack, peaking out only once he doesn't feel it. He shakes his head at her behavior, a frown set upon his face as he recomposes himself. "The sooner you accept what you are, Santana, the sooner you can get better."

A smug grin accompanied by flighty blue eyes catches her attention. Terri crosses her arms over her chest, panic flooding to replace rage. _Brittany_. Tears finally spill, her attempts at escape now frantic.

"How could you do this to me, Finn?"

_How_?

* * *

"Brittany?" Shoulders roll beneath her palm, a glaze drifting between blue eyes. Her face is pale, all the ruddy color normally found in her cheeks stained against a violet orchid. Digits shaking, Brittany continues to pile the shattered pot, ignoring the way Quinn entreats her.

Did she do something wrong?

Is that why Santana looked so angry?

She runs the tip of her index finger against a particularly long shard. She likes the way the lingering dirt rolls beneath her, red dust settling within the crevices of her hand. Honey blonde hair and prodding hazel eyes are suddenly level with her, Quinn crouching down, her face stooped to draw Brittany's attention.

The nurse snaps the shard out of her hand, tossing it in Brittany's haphazard pile, the piece landing with a sharp _clink_ which echoes against her ears. She bites her lip, more feelings she's never known welling up against the back of her throat. With all of these different things, how is she expected to keep them all straight? Frustration builds.

Quinn lets out a small sigh, her hand coming down one more time before she stands up, grabbing Brittany's wrist as she does. She pulls the blue eyed girl up, Quinn batting at the fresh dirt rumpling her simple dress.

"Come on, sugar." She tugs Brittany forward, driving them out into the rain, the droplets landing like needles against pale skin.

Brittany doesn't trust her voice, but she does trust Quinn. So she relents when hazel eyes begin tugging her towards the direction of the pond. They pass by the willow tree, the long branches dancing lightly in the wind, tickling the backs of Brittany's legs as they pass by. Their touch is cold, a lingering one that begins to work its way down to her bones, her chest rattling with upset.

They cross the lawn in silence, Brittany staring at the backs of Quinn's feet. She likes the way her calves move beneath the white nylon, the way the balls of her feet carry the brunt of her movement, her heels never biting deep into the soggy ground. She never could understand the need for high heels. They are painful and make horrible noises upon marble.

A strong breeze rolls across the water's surface, the reeds swaying with its weight. The rain nearly drives sideways, a flash of light illuminating the darkening sky in a brilliant display. The water churns, tumultuously, the constant _thump_ of a long piece of wood against the post of the dock rocking with the waves. Brittany never understood why they had tethered the plank like that. It ran parallel to the dock, stopping just shy of the shore, a slimy, black and green rope (thick with the smell of algae) binding it to the side.

What purpose does it serve?

She finds herself asking that question a lot lately.

The strong stench of mud and crisp slice of icy water briefly parts the darkness clinging in her chest. Quinn's hand warms her own, the nurse motioning towards the water. The waves cap, the white frothing and bubbling beneath the surface. She imagines the fish don't much care for this weather either.

"When it gets too cold up North, they fly away." Quinn's voice is soft, as if she's testing each word that comes out of her mouth.

"The…fish?" Brittany eyes her hesitantly.

Wind whips around them again, the tips of Brittany's toes beginning to grow into a numbing heat. She shifts uncomfortably, gathering her hair over her left shoulder, attempting to keep the long tendrils out of Quinn's face. The white of her bandage is nearly soaked through, the pink of her skin peeking from beneath the edges. Red seeps through with water.

The honey blonde nurse laughs, eyeing Brittany carefully. "No. The ducks."

"Oh…" A bashful blush spreads like fire beneath her cheeks. Fish flying, that's ridiculous. A beat passes between them before Brittany's curiosity gets the better of her. "Where do they go?"

Quinn shrugs. "South."

"Why?"

"Because they can't survive up here when it's cold." Brittany purses her lips, her fingers twisting in her hair, streams of water ringing from the blonde locks.

"Why don't they just stay down in the South, then? It would certainly be easier instead of going back and forth twice a year."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Another pause passes between them, the rustling of the reeds hissing in the wind. A calmness blooms through Brittany's chest as she watches the way the wind breaks around them. A small smile lifts her lips. She squeezes Quinn's hand harder, prompting the nurse to speak again. "But they always find themselves coming back, don't they, even as silly as that sounds."

Her throat begins to close again, a bitter note striking deep within her stomach. "But that's so sad. Why wouldn't they want to build a home in one place?"

The nurse takes the question into consideration. "I think it's because the North is their home, Britt. That's why they always come back to it, even if they stray to the South every once and a while."

"But the North is dangerous and cold and lonely." Her frustration begins to boil again. "Why would they want that for themselves if they weren't made to understand it?"

"Because it's where they belong," Quinn offers.

"No one deserves to be in dangerous, cold and lonely places, Quinn. The South is infinitely kinder to her, so maybe she should just stay there." It's like if she talks about it, then maybe the ducks will actually listen. Brittany doesn't realize her slip until Quinn is already staring at her, an unreadable expression pricking hazel eyes. She wiggles her fingers out of the nurse's grasp, crossing her arms across her chest with a large huff.

The honey blonde nurse doesn't say anything, just continues to stare. Brittany doesn't like the way her eyes read across her skin. The way she drinks in the little bits of hidden things that Brittany has tried so hard to hide from everyone. Her heart hammers in her throat, waiting for Quinn to say something, the icy needles of rain drumming against her skin, beading like little bubbles, magnifying the worlds of blotchy red beneath.

She thinks of soft cinnamon lips and the way dark eyes bleed through her veins, twisting within the rivers of crimson to feed a direct line to the _thump, thump, thump_ of her heart. Her chest squeezes, giving a strong tug towards the porch. Brittany peeks over her shoulder briefly, the large bay windows glinting in the distance. A sheen of water rushes over them, warping the light in snake-like patterns.

Brittany needs to see dark eyes and harsh smiles (soft only for her) but instead is met with the eyes of the house, the statue of Edgar Dalton silhouetted against the quickly darkening sky. Calloused hands rack down her spine in ghosted patterns, a tongue, thick and metallic, invades her throat.

She grabs at Quinn's hand again, staring down at the tops of her feet. Her muscles convulse against the seeping chill.

"What happened, sugar? Please talk to me?" She twists her body around, burying her face into the comfort of honey blonde strands, the overwhelming scent of _clean_, mixed with a dash of citrus soothing her nerves.

"I don't know what's happening." Tentative fingers brush along her temples, pushing the loose strands of wet hair back. Quinn moves to stroke the back of her head, waiting for her to continue. "She's not Simon, Quinn."

"Of course she isn't, sweetie."

"She doesn't lie, or steal, or cheat, or call me sugarpie or mollydoll. She doesn't walk around in the middle of the night, talking to men in dark suits and she doesn't keep a gun in the bedside table. She doesn't throw brandy against walls, or tell me that I can't do something." Brittany grips Quinn tighter, her blood on fire. "I'm Brittany and she's Santana, and that's all it has to be. Because she tastes like cinnamon wrapped inside of one of those smoky candies that Uncle James gave me for Christmas last year and she does this thing where the inside of her eyes almost melts to chocolate. She tells me about misterbugs when you won't, and I trust her, Quinn.

"But she's not Simon. And I'm scared."

"She tastes like what?" Quinn freezes.

"Cinnamon."

"I knew it," she hisses, her head turning away from Brittany. Quinn glares at the house.

"But not the bad kind of cinnamon. Not like that time when you told me to try and swallow a spoonful. More like the kind that's sprinkled along the top of apple pie. Or baked into the Christmas breads your mama makes." The blonde suddenly finds herself at arm's length, Quinn's hazel gaze raking over her face, her fingers urgently pressing into her sides.

"Did she hurt you, Brittany?" Quinn moves around her face, gauging her from all angles, looking for any bruising, any scarring.

"What, no!" She gasps, nervously fidgeting under the extreme scrutiny.

"But she kissed you."

"Is that wrong?" (How could it be when it felt so right?)

"That little tramp."

"Quinn," the sudden snap in Brittany's voice stills the nurse's tongue. "Why doesn't Simon taste like that?"

"He's trying to help you get better, Brittany. He wants you home and with someone like Santana around, you'll never make it. I'm here to protect you and keep these sorts of things away."

"Stop kidding yourself. You know as well as I do that I'm never getting out of here." She smiles bitterly, her fingers clasped tightly around a glinting brass ring. She twists the band over and over and over again until she pulls it from her finger. "She's beautiful, Q." The confession is quiet, like words said in prayer. Reverent against the plush of her lips. Brittany holds the ring up.

No beginning or end.

That's what it's supposed to be. Eternity.

But she remembers the beginning of Simon. And she knows the end of the man who left grape sized bruises along the curve of her neck. But Santana? She just is. The thoughts confuse her, her eyebrows crinkling up, the beautiful hazel of Quinn's eye outlined by the dull sheen of the ring. There's a tremor on the nurse's lips, as if she doesn't know what to say.

Brittany tosses the ring, the little piece of metal landing with a dull plop within the rolling waters. It sinks to the bottom where no one will ever find it now.

* * *

**September 25, 1941**

They don't speak. At least, Santana doesn't. Brittany tries, but there are only so many things she can talk about. (She's pretty sure that Santana knows more about Lord Tubbington than anyone ever has, aside from herself.) The topic of emotions and a fleeting kiss, the blonde feels, are taboo.

Santana avoids her eyes whenever she tries to catch them, making sure to keep herself at least five feet away at all times. Not even Rachel's constant buzzing draws a response. Everyone keeps eyeing her, more so than usual, whispered words behind hands disrupting the ambiance. (Brittany decides that she doesn't much care for their rumors and stories now.) Puck is with Santana as often as Quinn is with her, the nurse still angry at her for throwing her wedding ring into the pond. (She suspects there might be a search and rescue attempt in the near future, but Brittany hopes that there is such a thing as a leprechaun so she doesn't have to see the damn thing again. They eat gold, right?)

They each sit upon their respective beds before lunch time, Brittany's back flat against the cool wall, blue eyes never leaving Santana. If only she would just look at her, maybe then they could talk. Her lips twist into a pained frown. The smolder curls around caramel cheeks, licking its way to the underside of her jaw, the frown upon Brittany's face deepening.

She clears her throat.

What should she say? Anything? Everything?

"The rain today sure is…wet." She sighs, scrunching her nose up in annoyance. Really? That's all she could come up with. Santana raises an eyebrow, her own gaze drawn out the window. Sunlight peeks through the grey clouds, bathing the room in a hazy half-light. With autumn quickly approaching, a bleak chill sets within the walls. Goosebumps prick along her arms, all of her hairs rising.

Brittany brings her fingers to her mouth, her teeth beginning to worry away at the nail. Daddy always slapped her hand away, but that never deterred her. It's a bad habit, she knows, and not one that a 'lady of her standing' should indulge in, but she doesn't care. Unless Santana cares. Blue eyes rove over the stony face of her companion, trying to discern any sort of emotional reaction to her actions.

There is none.

Santana has her hair back today, drawn against her scalp with a comb, the bright reds and yellows like little hidden treasures against the shadow dark of her hair. Like a lush, Brittany drinks in the way her ear curves, resting briefly along the light patch of skin just below, her lips itching to press there.

(_If you told me you loved me, I'd listen_.)

She pulls her thumb from her mouth, pressing it briefly against her own bottom lip, remembering the way Santana's had pooled around her fingers, her breath spread against her. Brittany's mouth runs dry. A shiver grips her so deep, she's certain it touches her soul. She has to talk about it.

They have to talk about it.

(But how do you speak to a wall?)

(They listen. The walls have ears.)

"I'm a duck," she blurts, slapping herself inwardly. Her heart tugs with the _thump, thump, thump_ of dark eyes and wounded glances. The corner of Santana's lips twitch. That's all she needs.

"I'm a duck," Brittany says again, her words much slower and said with a purpose. "And I don't like the North, Santana." She nods her head, as if that's sufficient enough, but she knows that it's not. At least she managed to say something other than 'the rain is wet.'

"I don't want you to be mad at me…" She drops her hand into her lap, the new linens against her left wrist significantly cleaner than the ones afforded to her previously. (She always wondered how they became so white.) "People say that I'm stupid and that I don't really understand the things that I say, but I do. I can't help it if I find mousse to be confusing or that Lord Tubbington is hiding a stash of illegal Mexican chili under his bed. It's just who I am. And people lock other people up for who they are.

"Simon said that I was hearing things, Santana. That I wasn't right in the head, so Dr. St. James came by one night and when I woke up the next morning, I was here. I don't _hear_ things. I mean, I hear myself, but I don't really know how thought works, so I guess if you don't hear your own thoughts, maybe I am sick…Does that make sense?" She knows it doesn't, but her words are beginning to run away with her.

Nervous knots twist in her stomach, gathering into a small fist.

"I don't feel sick. I mean, not usually. But I feel sick right now because people are whispering things about you, but I can't really hear what they're saying, and I don't know if it's because of something I did, and if it is I'm sorry, but please, Santana, don't be mad at me anymore." Brittany finds herself leaning forward, her hands gripping the side of her bed, fingers working within the fabric of her blanket. The rough threads soothe her. But the dark look crossing Santana's features doesn't.

"You're Santana and I'm Brittany. That should be enough, right?" A cloud passes over the sun, the room plunging itself into weak light. Silence settles over her shoulders like a lead blanket, a heaviness expelling the wind in her chest. Her lungs begin to burn, scared she might miss Santana's response should she simply breathe. Almost to the point of breaking, her throat screaming at her, she's startled when she hears the smoky tones drift between the air, tight as a line.

"But you _don't_ understand."

For the first time in days, Brittany feels a smile ghosting her lips. Talking. Talking is better than not talking. Even if Santana's words hurt her, sawing against her bones with grating accuracy. "Then _make me_. Everyone gives me excuses and when I ask why, they all shut me away." Soft words brush light caresses against Santana's cheeks, a bit of color marring her skin. Dark eyebrows knit up, a soft, pink tongue slipping out to wet her lips.

"I can't."

"Sure you can, all you have to do is—"

"I can't, Brittany. I can't do this." And just like that, the walls around Santana Lopez draw in tighter. So tight, the blonde is scared Santana can't breathe. Her shoulders droop.

"I'll be waiting for when you can, then." (Santana's heart breaks at the poignant twist in her words.)

* * *

They never used to bother her before. The countless eyes sneaking little glances at her. Or words said behind a cupped hand. They always said the same thing: awe. Wonder. Because she's Santana. A dangerous woman, graced with dark beauty and femme fatale charm. Everyone wanted to taste the black mystery and ominous intrigue.

But now?

She clutches her knees closer to her chest, feeling like a fragile glass box. They're too scared to say anything, but she can see the way they all look at her. A revulsion swirls in eyes, clouding the iris with a preconceived notion. Mercedes, while pitying, hasn't sat by her since stupid fucking Finn Hudson's outburst. Like she's scared it'll get back to her somehow. Like it'll rub off. What does she think she'll do? Damage her children? She's seen the way the colored girl tightens her lips, staring at the chairs surrounding her, as if she wants to sit down, but ultimately decides against it.

Rachel is her only company, the unremitting words that Santana has seen pouring out of her overly large mouth suddenly becoming assiduous and far less aggravating. A sadness, deeper than Santana would have ever expected, bores an endless chasm in the Jewish girl's eye, echoing within her throat. Her happiness rings hollow. And if Santana weren't so angry, she would almost feel sorry for her. (But she'll never tell her that.)

The anger coils around her tighter, poisoning her very soul. Charring it beyond recognition. Because there's Brittany, sitting across the way, the words still hanging between them, her endless eyes searching for the tendrils of _something_ to lead her back. There's nothing natural about this.

Santana has never been talkative, preferring to push everyone away with snarky comments and biting words, but she finds the way Brittany's words lilt and drift through cohesion, seamlessly as water, to be comforting. She glances at blue eyes, still trained upon her, their eyes snapping for just a split second before Santana pulls away again. (If the connection lasts for only another second, she will fall to pieces.)

How can she expect Brittany to understand? With painted lips and universe eyes that chart stars. Where the silver light pools around her in an endless expanse, wreathing her porcelain skin in a glow she suspects is warm.

Maybe she does. Maybe the blonde gets it, but Santana can't willingly pull her into the line of fire. Not with so many people ready to do anything to get to herself _or _Simon. But every time she looks at her, Santana feels her resolve weaken. The green line across her left ring finger has faded, the tiny piece of eternal copper no where to be seen. She's almost inquired after it a thousand times, but stops the words before they have enough courage to drift into sound.

It's not her place.

Her fingers gingerly pick at the edge of her blanket, threads pulling lose from within the inner workings. Standing apart from the big picture. But Simon. His name is like a dark, wet cloth taut over her face, slowly pressing the life out of her chest. He's a stain. A stain that marks a beginning.

(And now marks the end.)

* * *

_He said that it would be a small exchange. To sort out a simple misunderstanding. Somewhere on neutral ground. A warehouse situated on the pier, windows dark and broken, the insides gutted. There were no workers here, the harsh concrete dark in splotches. He said that it was quiet here. That they wouldn't be bothered._

_That no one could interfere._

"_Su papi no tienen estómago para ello, nieta, pero alguien debe ser capaz de hacer cosas difíciles." His hand settled upon her shoulder. His wisdom, knowledge, experience all at a single touch. She was sixteen then, with fiery dark eyes and beautiful raven hair, without the taste of bourbon soaking her lips, or the pressing weight of society closing in around her._

"_Yes, abuelo."_

_The squalid stench of spoiled fish and raw pork rinds littered the air, settling heavily around her in a musty blanket. The clouds hung low in the sky, the spring air thick with electricity. It blocked her throat, causing her breaths to come in short gasps. Her hair stuck uncomfortably to the back of her neck, little beads of sweat trailing between her shoulders._

_Their driver sat behind the wheel of the car, bright headlamps slashing through the haze misting up from the perpetually damp concrete. It was midnight in New York and she hadn't yet seen what the cover of darkness conceals. She'd only known luxuries and whispered words. Kisses and loving smiles from the dark eyed man now guiding her along with firm hands._

_Papi had resisted, stating that this was no place for a little girl. His little girl. That this empire was something that Atilio had built and his dynasty would end there. Abuelo had tried many times to reason with his son, but the young doctor didn't want to have anything to do with late night strolls and talks in back alleys. He wanted to provide for his wife. Love his daughter. And keep them both safe._

_But they say only blood knows._

_When Santana was six, he finally relented, but only as a side to his other passion. Her mother had always been distant, but abuela had always taken it upon herself to care for the young Lopez. She loved her abuelo. And he saw a glimmer in her eye._

_The same glimmer that hung like a moon on a starless night, scanning along the warehouse, her lips pressed into a tight line. Her hands shook, but she wouldn't let him see. She was excited. For something she wasn't sure she even understood. But it mattered to him. The way he smiled down at her, their footsteps glancing music against the soft purr of the engine._

_Santana spied the door, hollow like an open mouth. And she knew that this was it. That this would ultimately change the course of her life. Take her by the throat and strangle her outright if she let it. The suffocating mist pressed in tighter around her, her muscles growing rigid as she knows they must remain._

"_We are the same, neita. There is nothing different."_

_The walk in seemed to take forever. But it was only seconds._

_It was dim, the only light stemming from a single bulb swaying with the lurching ocean tides. A chair, old and wooden sat beneath it. Rivers cut through the wood on the back in a uniform patter, the arms worn around the once harsh edges. It looked watermarked, angry lines of black snaking through the grains._

_Fear spiked at the base of her spine, coiling tightly._

"_Atilio!" _

"_So young! I expected another," abuelo replied, his gaze off in the distance. She snapped her head towards the cry. She expected to see a larger man with a pencil thin mustache, dark hair and darker eyes. She expected to see the blood permeating off of him, as sweat, to see his fingers clenched tightly around a wooden cane, a gun held in his other palm. But what she saw was a young man. Two, maybe three years older than herself._

_A young man, dapper in dress, stepped out of the shadows, rubbing his wrist delicately. His hair was cropped short, slicked with Pomade, drawing the dirty blonde locks into well manicured clumps, accenting his sharp cheeks and rugged jaw. It occurred to Santana that he reminded her of a spark of lightning, beautiful to watch, but certainly lethal if touched. His smile was bright, but stopped at the crinkle in his face. The iris was dull and dead, burning a pit into her chest. Dark grey eyes stormed, regarding the older man before turning to her._

_The fear coiled tighter._

"_This is Santana, my nie—granddaughter." She didn't like the way his eyes raked over her curves. Like he was hungry. She'd been gawked at by men before, she was beautiful. She knew that. But not in the hollow way his eyes penetrated through her stomach. Or the way they landed at her throat, his tongue peeking between his easy smile, gracing his lips with the soft, pink tip. Like he wanted to split her open and paint with dark crimsons. And pull out her bones to suck at the marrow. To taste her tendons. To relish in her voice. Her voice as it gurgled between a slit throat. A shiver raked his shoulders, a low chuckle sparked from something dark vibrating his chest. He tugged at his wrist again, something dark dappling the cuff of his beautifully tailored suit._

"_Certainly great entertainment for beautiful cats," he replied. A dark shadow crossed his eyes. _He's seen things_, the idea brushed the back of her mind. A grimace pulled his lips, fingers gloved in dark leather. Abuelo didn't reply, an unreadable expression guarding his thoughts. His hand tightened upon her shoulder._

"_If you find this sort of business entertainment—"_

"_Come, Atilio. You must as well, if you bring a girl."_

"_She does not concern you. Think of her as an observer."_

"_A watcher? Watcher of the worlds, seeing things behind the painted things that hang there?" His words, like snakes, hissed. She curled her lip._

"_Is that supposed to be charming?" She crossed her arms, trying to seal the hole he'd seared into her._

"_Santana," abuelo warned._

_The young man barked out a laugh. Nervous chocolate eyes darted away from his dark stare._

"_Trouble, Atilio. This little kitty cat will be trouble." You'd best be careful._

"_But not now. Now there are other things that cause us both trouble and I expect to solve these problems before my wife finds a chilled bed and missing granddaughter."_

"_Of course, of course. I am a gentleman of business, after all." Of business black and dark and all things. The business of shadows and concrete. Of fish innards and bucking docks._

_The young man crossed the distance, extending his hand towards her. Everything in her body begged for her to run. To go all the way back home and crawl between her sheets and allow sleep to finally overcome her. But the stubbornness wouldn't allow it. Her mouth felt full of chalk, the confines of the building beginning to press in around her. Fish innards mixed with a light dusting of sterilizing agent. Her jaw tightened, staring at his extended hand._

_Stubbornness grasped his hand, her fingers splayed across a broad palm. She knew she was shaking. Knew that he knew. But he turned to her slowly, his smile never once fading and said "What beautiful hands." He trapped her palm between his own, pulling her so they were linked together. He strode forward with confident, easy steps, Santana caged at his side. "Tell me," he began. They passed through the darkness, the breath of abuelo the only thing reminding her that he was still present. "Do you know what fish like best?" The unspoken answer threatens within his pupil. _

_The sound of a scuffle not far off to her right had her neck snapping around. She stared hard, dark figures twisting and groaning against the cool black. She smelled tears, tasted the way they pooled from widening eyes. A jerked leg bounces back against a can full of nails, each rolling along the ground in chaos. In chaos and fear. The swinging of the yellowed light pooled against the top of a shoe. Then a man. Then a woman. _

_Her tears were those on the back of Santana's throat. Red lined her sclera, injecting her with liquid lightning. Her hair was white gold, snarled and twisted beyond recognition. Thick ropes bound her wrists and ankles, a dirty, grey cloth embroidered with a delicate violet S stuffed roughly into her mouth. Her nose had been running, her pale cheeks red with rivers. _

_A flush of red stood in stark contrast._

_Large hands guided the woman to the chair, roughly setting her down, the edges of the seat biting deeply into her legs. Into her back. Blood pumped through Santana's veins, her heart beat threatening to break her ribcage. But she kept her face a stone mask. He dropped her hand, stepping into the light, his body blocking most of the woman in the chair. He whispered low into her ear, hand upon her shoulder._

_Santana looked to her abuelo. Soft eyes were distant that night._

_When he turned around again, his smile had grown three times, his eyes almost looking drunk. He jerked his head towards her, keeping his gaze steady with abeulo. "Do you see?" By the way he turned back to the woman, Santana knows the words were spoken to her. Tearing her gaze away, she notes the way dark masses dangled from the steel beams. The way their lumped forms barely made up a human figure. The way the mass twisted in shoulders. Or simmered to a head._

_She imagined the concrete stained beneath them._

_The pit in her stomach churned cold._

"_Do you see what happens? We can't have loose ends lying around!" Chocolate eyes graced back to him, watching the way he touched the side of her face, drawing his black leathered hands through the thick scarlet streams upon her cheeks. A fresh sob wracked the woman's chest. _

"_Has she told you where it is?" Abuelo's voice was harsh. Distant._

"_Of course she did. I'm quite persuasive." The hitch in his voice didn't go unnoticed by the dark haired Latina. He twirled something long and silver between his hands when he turned about. His smile was still there._

"_Then why are we still here? I have better things to do and better people to see." Heat pricked at the back of Santana's eyes as she watched the woman, her hands trembling, pale cheeks blanching like bleached bones. _

"_Do you hear that? It appears as though our time together draws to a close." He turned back to the woman, her body lurching at his voice. He dragged the metal rod down the side of her face, the tip flaying her skin, beads of blood beating up to the surface. "Till next time, Ma chérie. Je vais être certains à dire bonjour." With a quick, fluid jerk, he pulled the rod back, the tip glinting red within the swaying light. Eyes flicked over his shoulder, catching dark chocolate browns in the moment before he drove the rod deep within the cornea of her eye. White turned gel threatened to melt out of her socket, her pupils still raptured in the way Santana watched. There wasn't any blood. Only a jerk, her jaw slack and opened in a scream never to come. A scream that would haunt Santana for years. _

_She was missing a shoe, something Santana just noticed. _

_It hardly seemed to matter._

"_Do you know what fish like the most?" He ripped the instrument out, droplets sliding down the slick sheen. His voice was light, a shiver rippling between his shoulders. "People."_

_His smile never faded._

* * *

Santana can see the smile burned into the white flesh of Brittany.

The vicious maw of anger pierces deeper.

* * *

She should never have spoken back.

Brittany sits with her at lunch again, her blue eyes staring holes into the brownish slop the cooks have decided to call stew. (Is that a chunk of potato?) Santana rolls it around with her spoon, skin crawling.

"Do you think vegetables feel while we peel them?" Brittany continues to stare, her lips twisted into (an adorable) frown. Despite her better lack of judgment, Santana allows herself a quick laugh. (Brittany's heart flutters.)

"Dear Lord, Brittany," Rachel gasps, suddenly pushing her food as far away from her as possible. When the blonde had sat down to join them, the brunette hadn't even uttered a single complaint. Quinn stands on the outskirts, Puck leaning against the wall next to her, glaring daggers at the idiotic Finn Hudson. She suspects he's talking to the honey blonde by the way her lips dip into a sharp line.

"What? They're alive aren't they?"

"Of course they are. In order to be organic, they'd have to be. I once saw in a dream where people in the future eat meat grown from the ground and produce foods out of chemicals. I didn't want to say this, since it tends to make people become jealous, but I'm a little psychic."

"Then do you think they scream when they're boiled?"

Rachel's eyes flutter, her hand drawing itself to her chest, eyelashes bouncing madly. "Being a vegetarian, I find this topic of conversation very disturbing."

"That's great, Rachel! I'm glad you've come to accept who you are, but stay away from Santana." Brittany levels a finger at her, a grim expression crossing her eyes. The possessiveness laced within her words doesn't go unnoticed by either party. Santana blinks, eyebrows screwing up in confusion. Rachel mimics her before a realization seems to dawn upon her.

"No Brittany, I don't eat meat. Not…" She makes a motion towards Santana, her lips pulled down in the most toad-like expression; she almost forgets to be offended.

"What're you implying?" Dark eyes narrow in the brunette's direction. Her eyebrows screw tighter before she whips her head back around towards the blonde, a lazy smile upon her lips. "Wait, what are _you_ implying?" It astonishes Santana how easy things are for Brittany. The way she can forget everything at the drop of a hat, the way she shrugs her shoulders and just continues on with life as if nothing has happened.

But Santana knows it snakes around there somewhere. In the back of her mind. She watches as blue eyes dart to all corners of the room, hateful words corrupting her ears. But her smile never wavers. And for the first time in days, Santana stares at her, breath robbed straight from her breast and locked away in the tender hands of Brittany.

Santana suddenly stands, panic cracking her resolve further. "I-I'll be right back," she manages to stammer out, turning her attention towards Puck. She approaches him, roughly tugging him towards one of the more secluded spots in the mess. She's quite aware of the vehement scowl running along her face, mixing with the flush that has decided to take up residence, once again.

"Do you think Nurse Q would like the circus?" he asks, thoughtfully, his eyes glancing back over his shoulder towards the sour looking nurse.

_I knew there was something wrong with her._

"I think she'd rather have hot coals shoved up her ass than be seen anywhere with _you_, Puck. Not that I can blame her." The bite is back in her words. She places him roughly in a corner, the eyes still lingering upon her back. She tries to shake them, but they claw at her. The tension continues to build.

"But do you think she'd like the _circus_?" he persists. Santana rolls her eyes.

_Who would have guessed?_

"If you want to get your willy bit off in that frigid snatch of hers, I won't stop you, but please tell me when you're going to attempt it, because I would really like to be present for the fallout." She crosses her arms over her chest, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

_She's so pretty, though._

"There's supposed to be a three ring in town."

"Volunteer for the knife act, would you?" She wraps her arms tighter around her stomach.

_Have you seen the way she looks at me?_

Words, like razors, gouge deep into her back and Santana almost feels the blood pooling to stain her rumpled blouse. Her stomach twists tighter, Puck's dark eyes cautiously prodding. He flicks his eyes towards where she was just sitting, his lips twitching just in the slightest.

_What a sick bitch. They should lock her up away from the rest of us._

"Is there any word yet?" She tries her best to ignore the stabs, but feels them blooming, like ice, beneath her skin.

"Nope. He ain't budgin' on the matter." Santana lets out a frustrated sigh, pushing her fingers through her hair. She doesn't like the way it leaves her neck exposed to snapping jaws.

"_Él no puede hacer esto a mí_; does he even recognize the damage that this has caused?" The muscle along her jaw leaps, her teeth gyrating together.

_My skin crawls every time she looks at me._

"_Jefe_ don't trust me, Santana. He wants someone on his side—"

"And that's shit for brains Hudson?"

"Well he ain't gonna send Dom or Nickles."

_Look at the way Brittany watches her._

Santana grits her teeth harder, swallowing the snarl dying to be released. If she could just figure out which woman it is. She sneaks a glance over her shoulder, the sudden panic propelling the mess into feigned actions of normalcy.

_Poor girl doesn't even know how to say no._

"Why'd he send you, then?" Santana flicks her wrists in annoyance towards Puck, her frown twisting wicked.

_Simon better keep a tighter leash on his dog before she strays._

"He wants you to feel safe." The tell tale crinkle between Puck's brows appears again, his eyes flicking over her shoulder.

"What are you—"

The shuffling of feet and the slamming of a tray brings Santana's focus. Frantic blue eyes and pristine corn wheat locks lean across the table, the sharp features of one Terri Scheuster bearing down upon Brittany, her fingers splayed in a wide pattern upon the top.

The mess grows frigid, whispered rumors and heated words freezing into a shimmering lattice hanging above everyone.

"Brittany," her voice carries, creaking like an ancient iceberg. "Has Santana's near-depravity corrupted you, too?" The blonde tilts her head to the side, pulling her spoon through the stew.

"You're not very nice, Terri," she replies back with a simple shrug.

"What?" She reels back, her hand upon her chest. (Santana thinks Rachel might have been proud if she didn't hate Terri so much—"Hate is not a term one should use, but I really rather dislike the woman on all accounts since I find her character to be so full of fake contradictions that—") "I'm simply trying to look out for your well-being!"

"No, you aren't." Brittany lifts her spoon, chunks of questionable meat tumbling from the utensil as she tilts it over. They land with a sickening slap.

"So the little bull has a matador now?" Terri quips. Santana raises her eyebrow. (Is that supposed to mean something?) "Do you even know how this reflects upon _us_, Brittany? Do you even _care_?"

"Santana's a farmer?" Childish flame sparks beneath troubled blue, flicking over towards the dark haired Latina. "Is that why the plants talk to her?"

"Simon should have taught you better," Terri says with an indignant huff, her hair tumbling over her shoulder. She peers down at Brittany along her nose. "Is that any way to treat your husband? By running off and holding the torch for some Diego gangster bulldyke?"

"Christ, Simon isn't even—"

"You're so sweet and innocent." Terri pats the top of Brittany's head, Santana catching the condescending lick to her words. "But those things only get you into trouble, beautiful girl."

Anger swells.

"It's no wonder you're so easily misguided, what with your mother's death and all, you've never had a woman really look out for you." The blonde stiffens in her grasp, warily pulling away. All childish mischief and intrigue leaves baby blues, a harshness dripping in place. (Santana is astounded how easily the blonde wears her emotions upon her sleeve.)

"It's not your fault you're stupid." Brittany pulls back further, harsh words about ready to pour from Quinn's mouth. But the honey blonde nurse barely gets the first syllable out before barbed words rip from Santana's throat, her body quickly closing the gap. A searing energy courses through her, the vein on her neck beating incessantly.

"You shut your goddamn cocksucking piehole, _que puta enferma_." The venom works within her muscles, releasing with the tight hiss of her breath. Santana finds herself standing between Terri and Brittany, a hissed "are you fucking serious" coming from Puck's direction. She resists the urge to lunge at the older woman, but stands within inches of her.

Sickeningly sweet eyes flutter, trying to wrap around the spitting Spanish. "You may be drowning in your misgivings as a failed wife, because—let's face it—you've obviously been a terrible one to have been thrown in here, but that doesn't mean you can project your own self worthlessness upon Brittany. _You _don't get to talk to her that way."

"I'll have you know my husband loves me very much! We're just having difficult times right now, what with the baby—" Terri stresses back, her hands instinctively cupping her smooth belly.

"Oh good, another shit stain to grace this world!" (Quinn stares at Santana with equal parts amusement and shock.)

"Don't you have some woman to defile?"

"I've never—"

"Because last I heard, nigger's still hang for the rape of a white girl." Santana's blood runs cold, stepping even closer to the older woman. She's vaguely aware of the world cautiously edging around her. (It wasn't rape. It wasn't.)

"If you don't want me to cut that _perrita_ out of your stomach with this spoon, you'll stop talking." She lifts the bent piece of metal up between them. It would be so easy. The spoon of the utensil bites deep into her palm.

"You're leading her down a miserable path. _I'm_ simply trying to save the poor girl before she falls as another victim to your sinful _inversions_." The rage subsides long enough for Santana to falter. Is she leading her down a dangerous path? She hazards a peek over to Brittany, blue eyes hard, but a ghosted smile (the smile only for _her_) misting her lips.

"Brittany is _not _a child. And if you ever treat her like one again, I won't wait until I have a spoon handy to claw your insides out." Santana turns on her heel, looking back down at the baby blues in question. She gives her a watery smile before flicking her acidic gaze towards Quinn. Hazel eyes are narrowed, an unreadable smirk upon her face.

(One.)

"You want to play this game, Santana Lopez?" Terri's threat hangs hollow in the stagnant air. "We'll play this game, and that _stupid, blonde, child_ will be the one caught in the crossfire." Terri jabs her finger towards Brittany with each word.

Darkness churns around Santana.

(Two.)

And she doesn't hesitate when she grabs Terri's finger, pulling the other woman closer so that her front collides roughly with her back, her arms pinning Terri's within her grasp. Santana's fingers close in around a perfectly maintained index finger, little bones like dry twigs against her trembling palm. (Whispers, bled through white walls and behind cupped hands tickle at the back of her mind.) And she wrenches the finger back, twisting it violently until she hears the _snap_ of bone, relishing the way the bone sticks at an odd angle beneath tight, white skin. Frantic hands and high pitched screams erupt within a carefully ordered cacophony.

(Three.)

"BEISTE!"

The shriek echoes throughout the corridors, but all Santana is aware of is endless blue eyes and porcelain skin paling. As if a whole world is falling around her, Brittany stares, enraptured and for the briefest of moments, Santana is reminded of the woman with the missing shoe. A soulless, voiceless plea dead in the pupil.

_Shit_, she thinks.

(Four.)

Santana drops Terri's broken hand.

(Five.)

_Shit_.

(Her world falls to pieces.)

* * *

**Translations:**

Su papi no tienen estómago para ello, nieta, pero alguien debe ser capaz de hacer cosas difíciles - Your Papi doesn't have the stomach for it, nieta, but someone must be able to do the hard things.

Je vais être certains à dire bonjour - I'll be sure to say hello

Él no puede hacer esto a mí – He can't do this to me

Jefe – Boss

que puta enferma – you diseased whore

perrita – little dog/puppy

* * *

**Author's Note: And we're back for another exciting round of Strange Fruit. Looks like the scrapper is on the ropes folks, can she do it? Do you think she'll come out on top and **_**send that dog to the slaughts?**_** (I know most of you won't even get it, but I couldn't resist.)**

**So, do you guys feel vindicated? Santana broke Terri's hand. What a crazy turn of events. What of Brittany's reaction? Don't be shy (I see you lurkers hiding in the shadows), tell me what you think!**

**I apologize for being a little late, but this chapter was sort of hard for me to write. I agonized over it for the better part of the week, so I hope you all enjoyed it. Again, seriously, if anyone knows Spanish and wouldn't mind me pestering them for assistance, that would be great. **

**I want to say thanks to all of those who read, reviewed (you're my favorites), lurked, loved and hated this story thus far. I want to give an extra special shout out to my lovely beta ****Swinging Cloud**** because without her, this chapter really would still be in shambles. **

**Anyway, I shall see you all next week! Stay out of trouble, kids. :D**

**/heart**


	7. The Star Man

**Warning: This chapter may contain triggering or intense material. PM me if you need to know the origin of said trigger and I'll get back to you, no questions asked.**

* * *

**Chapter 7: The Star Man**

_The bulging eyes_

Why did she do that?

Terri writhes, hot tears streaking her pale cheeks, her hand cupped to her chest. A wicked tongue pokes out between her teeth, her shrieks bouncing against the poorly padded surfaces. Like fingers, it reaches down. Deep. Deep into Brittany's chest, her bright blue eyes locked with Santana's. A look of utter shock, as if the smoldering woman didn't understand what she was capable of, draws against her tight jaw.

A blackness swills in her dark pupil.

(Rough hands and dark stains.)

First there's Puck, the young man wrapping his arms tightly around Santana's midsection, pinning her hands to her sides. Then there's Quinn, pulling Brittany from her seat, screaming _something_ at the tops of her lungs. But the blonde stares, her face a mask of confusion. Why did she do that?

_Because she's just like him_.

The idea surfaces with a snap, a shiver running down her spine. Sheets of ice prickle along her skin, her heart throbbing. How could _Santana_ do that? The shadows lick off of her shoulders, dark eyes lackluster, but not regretful. The world stands around them, as if time has somewhere better to be.

_Dark eyes and cinnamon drinks, nothing ever good comes of it_.

Her heart creaks, a splinter falling way into the deep recesses of her chest. She begs Santana silently, her ears still ringing with the snap of bone.

_Why?_

Santana's features darken, the silent reply simple. _She wanted to hurt you_.

Heat blooms across her neck, fanning out to touch the tips of her ears. Caught under Santana's intense gaze, Brittany feels nothing but safe. But she shouldn't. She knows she shouldn't. Not with snapping bones and razor tongues that are only meant to wound. But she isn't like that. At least not with her. The blonde crinkles her eyebrows, caught in a whirlpool. Where one tide battles another.

She longs to reach out and grasp Santana's fingers within her own, but time doesn't allow that. (It never does.) A barrel-chested woman with curly brown hair sprints through the mess, the Warder hot on her heels. Brittany had met Beiste twice, once when she first arrived and once when—

"Are you okay?" Quinn's hands are on either side of her face, tugging at her eyelids. Hazel eyes look panicked and Brittany notices the tremor that shakes the nurse's hands once. (But no more than that.) The blonde feels her heart breaking as she maneuvers herself around Quinn's incessant questions, murmuring out half answers that she can't repeat even if she wanted to.

Beiste has taken Puck's place, her arms, large as tree trunks, lifting Santana from the ground. She doesn't struggle, merely maintains eye contact with Brittany. As if she's resigned to her fate. Brittany flinches. For the first time, she sees the creeping edge to Santana's look, the same one that consumes her husband. The Warder wraps her arms around ankles, bearing some of the weight off of Beiste. Not that she needs the help.

Brittany's heart gives a tug.

"What're they doing, Quinn?" Her words tumble out as she watches them beginning to carry Santana through the high white arches of the mess. Peeling paint stares down at her, like hundreds of eyes burned into white walls. The icy prickle of panic grips her throat, her hands wrapping tightly around Quinn's upper arms.

She isn't even sure if the nurse replies before she asks again. "What're they doing?" Her voice cracks (like bones).

_All of this for you_.

The weight of Santana's answer nearly crushes her. _They'll hurt her_. Brittany knows. (They don't think she does.) Artfully, the blonde launches her body past Quinn, light fingertips grazing down her back as she moves out of the nurse's reach. Her heart hammers in her chest, splinters fracturing off to fall somewhere deep. Where jazz warbles and the cry of a horn is the only color against a dark sky. (The dark sky of Santana.)

(_Is this what it's like to live under the sea?_)

"Brittany!" (She thinks Quinn must really like to say her name.) She doesn't stop.

The other patients part like a field of wheat, watching her mad dash. (More eyes. Life-like eyes. Dead eyes. Wall eyes.) Quinn calls again, but she refuses to answer. She can't let them hurt her. If they knew what she was doing. If she can just _talk_ to them, maybe they would understand. Maybe they would know what she knows. (But no one ever knows what she knows.)

Brittany has never hated anyone in her life.

But she hates Terri.

And if she were more forward thinking, Brittany might come to see that Santana brings out the best and _worst_ of herself. Her heart gives another painful tug.

She crosses the threshold of eyes, yawning wood pitted and eaten by the years. The lingering scent of mildew crosses with the cinnamon still branded along her. If only she could just…

But what could she do?

Words have never been her strong suit. People, either. But. But.

Baby blues land upon the quickly retreating forms, Santana like a lifeless body being thrown to a fire. She hangs limp, though the Warder still treats her like a thrashing animal. (_What's another bath_, Santana thinks.) Angry snippets of words clash against themselves down the hallway, Brittany tearing off into a run after them.

If only she could just _talk_ to them.

Tears prick the back of her eyes. (She sees a twisted finger, bone poking up against white flesh at an unnatural angle. She sees Terri's mouth wrenching open, her tongue drawing back into the pink chasm, her throat constricting with a piercing scream. Sweat beads along the older woman's face. Shame settles in chocolate irises, beautiful lips drawn into a frown.)

"Pl…plea…se. Pl..." she struggles out through gasping breaths. The shock white of bone bleeds through the walls.

They round a corner, Brittany's heart suddenly giving way to the most painful beat yet. (She fears her ribs might be breaking.) _No, no, no, not there. Please, not there._ Her silent pleas move no one. Brittany rounds the corner, the big bay windows of the lounge dark with weak sunlight filtering in at her back. They're down the hall now, the high scuff of her feet upon tile drawing the attention of the Warder, halfway through a door.

_The door._

Ice blue eyes dance over her rapidly approaching form, stripping the clothes from her body and pinning her soul to the walls. The Warder doesn't smile. The door slams shut with a resounding snap, like the final nail in a coffin.

If only she could just _talk_ to them.

She reaches the threshold seconds later, her lungs burning with the explanations and pleas still caught in her chest. Pressing herself flush against the heavy wooden door, Brittany splays her hands upon the grains, her forehead pressed heavily against it. She is vaguely aware of Quinn and hands encircling her waist, another body pressing itself into her comfortable curves. The light brush of citrus drifts to her nose, her fingers spread out as wide as she can possibly make them. Her skin feels like it might tear, her joints aching in protest.

She wants to scream.

If only she could just _talk_ to them!

Brittany hears nothing on the other side of the door.

But she smells the static sparking on the tip of her tongue. It tastes metallic. How can they do this to her? Why don't they understand? She slumps her shoulders in defeat, her fingers slowly drawing down the door, the heat of her hands leaving a steamed outline against the cool, slick, wood.

Quinn moves with her until they are both resting on their knees in front of the door. Neither speak. The light _tap, tap, tap_ of shoes on tile finally draws her attention, Dr. St. James rapidly approaching down the hall, a clipboard in his hand. Brittany knows the words written there talk of Santana, much like they talk of herself. (And she wonders, for the briefest of moments, if they are somehow connected through something as simple as the inkwell of a pen.)

His brown locks are disheveled, fury mapping across the bridge of his nose. Brittany's heart stammers. If she could just _talk_ to him. Though it's a struggle, the blonde disentangles herself from Quinn, rising to meet the hastily approaching doctor. His lips curl down into a deeper frown when he spots her. But he's a doctor. He has to listen, doesn't he? Isn't there some sort of code? (If there isn't, Brittany thinks that there should be.)

"I'm sorry, Brittany, I don't have time for you right now." He moves to shoulder past her, his knuckles rapping the door loudly.

"Wait! Please wait." She worms her way within the threshold, placing her hands upon his chest, baby blue eyes captivating him in the deep burn of determination. "I know that much of what I say doesn't make any sense to you, and that you think that I'm some crazy cast off from Simon—which you're probably right—but I _need _for you to listen to me."

"Sugar, there's nothing we can do," Quinn quietly murmurs, reaching her hand out to gently graze Brittany's forearm.

"Listen to your nurse, Brittany." His eyes storm darker and Brittany doesn't feel safe any longer. A lump grows within her throat.

"She didn't mean to do it," she starts. Brittany tries the words on her tongue, her heart sinking further. She had meant to do it. Santana knew what she was doing. Bright blue eyes stare at the tiles beneath her feet. How many people is she going to have to make excuses for? "Okay…she meant to do it. But there are reasons. And if you'd only just talk to her, maybe you'd be able to figure them out. Santana can be nasty and mean and biting but only because Terri makes her feel like a little tadpole caught in a jar. And Terri is that kid who likes to shake the jar." Her eyebrows knit together.

Dr. St. James sighs, rolling his eyes before he raps his knuckles upon the door again, his weight shifting from hip to hip impatiently. "With such violent outbursts, Nurse Fabray, and Santana's particular tastes," he looks Brittany up once and down. "I don't think Brittany's constant presence around her is assisting in her speedy _recovery_." He sneers at the word.

"But if you would just _listen_—"

"In fact, I think she might be agitating the problem." His stare levels at Quinn. "Would you agree?"

No.

Brittany whips her head around so fast she feels like her head might twist right off. Her eyes plead. Plead silently. _Please, Quinn_. She balls her hands at her sides so they don't tremble. Hazel eyes flick between baby blues and Dr. St. James, as if the answer Quinn seeks is suspended somewhere between them. A beat before she licks her lips.

"I think—"

The door gives way at Brittany's back, the sudden vastness of a large room swaying the blonde where she stands. Her stomach clenches, Dr. St. James pushing his way by her, a muttered "_finally_" growling deep within his throat. She looks back over her shoulder, catching the way Santana pulls against thick leather straps bolted to the underside of the table she's been set upon (as if an item on display), chocolate eyes wild and frantic. Beiste stands at the head, her head ducked in a silent reverence, the Warder adjusting something upon a little box set upon a cart, black dials burning holes into the machine.

"Well, Santana. It appears as though your violent tendencies are getting the best of you. We'll see if this might help." Jesse is standing at her right side, picking up a forked object, a wicked gleam in his eye. Brittany feels her ribs snapping with the hammer of her heart. She makes to lunge for the door, but finds Quinn's arms wrapped tightly around her waist. The door latches closed with another, thick snap.

"_NO_!" It twists itself from her throat violently, her fingers scrambling to gain purchase upon the wood of the door. Her cry echoes down the hallway, tears freely streaming down her cheeks. They'll hurt her. They'll hurt her and think that they're helping. But it doesn't help. It only hurts. She doesn't want Santana to hurt.

Her wail echoes endlessly within the chasm of her chest.

_How could she do it, though?_

Quinn holds her tighter. And never once lets the torn blonde go.

* * *

"What is this?!"

The straps cut deep into the flesh on her arms, the tips of her fingers beginning to tingle from the lack of circulation. Her chest feels heavy, the fine hairs on the back of her neck and arms standing on end. She shouldn't have done that. The way Brittany's eyes fell, the way she flinched away. Shame grips at her, harder still. It snakes up her spine, coiling around it tight, gripping her to the bone.

Jesse stands next to her, flipping through some of the pages on her chart. He purses his lips while setting it down next to him on the low counter top. He twirls a forked instrument in his hands. Much like the tuning fork she had seen her mother use once while in the study. Except bigger. Much bigger. (It's like the wishbone, she thinks sardonically.) Each curved arm ends in a round piece, the center stuck with a small silver disk. A thick wire runs along the floor to the machine Sue currently stands next to, connecting to the bottom of the instrument.

Beiste stares down hard into her eyes, the soft sympathy held there rolling through her iris. "I'm sorry, sugar cube," she says softly before picking up another piece of _something_. It's short and stout, with a rounded tip on one end, the other end a much smaller tip sticking out prominently. The body of the piece couldn't have been longer than her finger, but that is the least of Santana's worries. The width, almost a finger and a half, makes her nearly choke.

"What're you doing?" She asks, her voice a low warning. Before Santana can protest, Beiste's hand is around her jaw, her fingers working their way uncomfortably against her cheeks, her mouth popping open in a long oval, her jaw snapping in protest. Santana's first instinct is to snap her mouth shut, but the woman's sheer strength holds her open like a well oiled door. Her next instinct is to slap the shit out of the lumbering woman.

Chorded muscles leap along her neck, her biceps clenching as she pulls her arms against the straps, sweat slicking the leather against her wrists. The frayed stitching rubs her skin, a sting developing along her arm. Heavy, soft eyes bear down upon her, Beiste popping the piece she had previously held, into her mouth. Her lips burn, a cry of protest gurgled against the back of her throat, promptly cut off by the obstruction of the object. She chokes as it hits the back of her mouth, her tongue depressed to the very bottom, the taste of rubber bitter. It's a smooth object, soft as she bites her teeth down upon it, material pooling along her canines. She sputters, trying to spit it out, rage blanketing the edge of her vision.

Just who do these people think they are?

"Okay, Santana," Jesse starts. She can barely hear him over her own breathing, her lungs burning deeper. Her stomach churns at the sound of his voice, panic quickly settling against her bones. The cruel curve of the instrument smiles down at her. "We're going to try a little something different today." He gives her a snaky grin, a thick slime feeling as if it's settling over her. The light in the room flickers briefly, the dark corners filled with long dead screams.

She twists harder within her confines.

"Now, now, this is going to help you." He runs a palm over the top of her head, relishing the way dark locks slip, like silk, along his flesh. Goosebumps prickle along his arms. He lets out a long sigh, shaking his head. "We just need for you to relax. Everything will be better in a moment, you'll see."

It's as if he believes the load of shit that comes out of his mouth. Santana bites down harder, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an angry scream. Her features darken. Angry bruises write across her ankles. Write across her wrists, her aching jaw hot with Beiste's regretful fingers.

The glint of a buckle catches her eye, over Jesse's right shoulder, the long white coat hanging from a hook, suspended against the wall. Caught in a struggle of animation and dormancy, the sleeves tap lightly, adding to the rhythm of the room. She counts six buckles, the tarnished edges sad under the artificial light.

Jesse moves to the head of the table, Beiste moving over to stand by Sue. She feels the instrument, like pincers, firmly sit against her temples. Her face is slick with sweat, her stomach in a knot so intricate, a sailor would be impressed. Bile stings the back of her throat, and she wonders what would happen if she threw up.

Cold, blue eyes and hawkish, harsh features tell her that they would probably let her choke. Choke until it came out her nose. She can smell it now. Her knees shake, her fingers gripping the sides of the table, her sweat slicked palms warming the other wise cool surface. Her heart hammers and she tries to think of baby blues and universe eyes.

This can't be so bad, can it?

A light tap draws her attention to her leg, Jesse standing over by the machine now, Beiste taking up her residence back at her head. Santana pours as much heat into her gaze as she can, hoping it turns his insides to ash. (It almost does, but he loves the way it makes him feel. Him, Jesse St. James. Playing with fire and not getting burned.)

"It'll be alright," he says, a blackened edge to his words. He turns back to Sue, his voice low. And he probably thinks she can't hear him, but she can. "Give her just a little, Sue, nothing too drastic." The Warder nods her head.

Is that supposed to be reassuring? Because Santana doesn't feel reassured.

She grips the side of the table harder, her joints feeling as if they're going to pop right out of their sockets, her pupils no larger than the eye of a needle. She holds her breath, anxiety threatening to gouge through the back of her eyes. Threatening to open a new mouth within the tight muscles of her stomach. Could she scream through it, she doesn't know.

Santana Lopez trembles.

She tries to think of universe eyes and ghosted smiles. The way her fingers fit like pieces of a puzzle between long, white ones. The way her skin still burns, after all this time, the way fresh sunshine dances along her lips. There's something about hair spun from gold. Something in the way she _is_. The way her body bends and moves, as if caught on the wind. Dancing and playing with the things unseen by most.

A wave of pain sparks through her nerves, her fingers suddenly clenching down tighter along the edges, the lip of the table biting viciously into her soft flesh. As if she's an offering for it to feast upon. She wants to scream, but finds it paralyzed in the spasming muscles of her throat, her teeth biting down hard upon the little rubber item in her mouth. In a perfect arc, her body rises. The flat plane of her stomach paying a somber prayer to the ceiling in a macabre bend (beautiful and elegant in its own right), her shoulders barely touching the surface. Soft curves turned stiff, Jesse lets a self-satisfied smirk lash across his lips.

Hot tears shake from the corners of her eyes, veins cropping up along her temple, her thick jugular attempting to flee from beneath the blanket of her neck. It surges straight through her, her heartbeat quickening to try and right the erroneous wrong being inflicted upon her being. Santana doesn't know what's happening. Her eyes roll into the back of her head painfully. The still rational part of her brain screams at her to get away, the other half (winning half) seems to shut down completely, riding on the tides of pain.

The pain subsides, her body dropping to the table, the edges of her vision bleary at best. Words crackle like through a broken speaker, the static buzzing deep inside of her ear. Her muscles twitch continuously, her eyes looking for a way out. Any way out. She pulls against the restraints again, though she feels as if her bones have been replaced with lead. Breath comes laboriously.

Brown eyes catch her, Beiste's expression grim. But Santana takes comfort in it. This is it, isn't it? That is all? The stubborn nature grown like a wicked tree beats dangerously beneath the pulse point in her neck. Attempting to swallow, she finds that she cannot. More words rattle, but she can't understand them. Brown eyes and drawn lips. That's what she understands. The reassuring way the large woman stares down at her. Surely, she will stop this before it gets out of control. Okay. She's learned her lesson.

Breaking fingers is bad.

As if reading her mind, Beiste shakes her head. Santana's eyes widen in panic.

No. This is ridiculous!

Another sweeping blanket of pain stems from her temples, her body turning rigid once again. This time, her nerves cry out, weeping and snapping along her flesh. Her toes curl, sweat beginning to pool down her spine. She can taste the bile on the back of her throat, but she cannot think about it.

Santana can't think about anything.

She burns, from the inside out. The way an acid burns. Stripping everything away and leaving nothing. She struggles to let her sobs break her chest, for her diaphragm to fill, for air to pierce her surely punctured lungs, but there is nothing. She finds nothing. Her thighs begin to tremble, the corners of her consciousness waning. Yes. Please. She begs for the oblivion that only unconsciousness can bring. Where she is blissfully unaware.

She scrambles towards it, her insides feeling like they're about to burst. The shadows lick on the insides of her eyes, wrapping deftly around her outstretched fingers. So close. She's so close. But then she feels her back hitting the table once again. Air rushes back into her lungs, the edges of her vision, while still harsh and blurred, no longer blackening. She turns her head to the side, letting out a choked whimper, the sob still paralyzed deep within her breast.

Eyes half lidded, she watches Beiste's lips move, her angry words buzzing within her ears. She wishes she could hear what she's saying. The woman looks terrified when she's angry. The deep depression of Beiste's lips and the snarl resting upon the tip of her nose key Santana in. Brown locks bounce back and forth as she shakes her head violently.

Her heart sputters madly in her chest, confused as to what it should be doing. Confused as to why this is happening. A fresh set of tears pours down her face as she tries to sort it all out, her muscles still violently twitching against her own will. This is her body. Nothing should will it to do things other than herself. The idea infuriates her, but she is deflated, her energy sapped. Sucked.

How is this supposed to help?

Tossing her head to the side, she groans. Her skin prickles, exhaustion sweeping over her suddenly and unexpectedly. The room around her shakes in vibrations, her body feeling desecrated and smashed. Don't they know any bounds? She feels so far removed, like she's a buckle on the jacket, watching and reflecting everything. Living it through the tarnished reflection that dapples the metal.

Santana has no control.

The longer she lays upon the table, the firmer the realization becomes. Until it's almost solid. It sits, like a child upon her chest, smiling down at her with candied eyes and a sharp grin, little fingers jabbing into her sides and sticky molasses coating her skin. The sting of bile rises in her throat again.

(The electricity isn't the problem.)

(_"Skit scat, little kitty cat…"_)

Beiste's words continue to buzz, the muscles along her jaw leaping with emotion. She shoves a large finger down towards the dark haired Latina. Santana slowly struggles to turn her head towards where she knows that bastard Jesse stands. He argues back, shaking his head and jabbing his own finger down at the chart he holds in his hands again.

If he could only see the look on his face. The way his eyebrows crinkle into a harsh line, his lips twisting down into an ungodly scowl. He looks like someone took a shit in his water. And he took a mighty big swig. Santana would have to remember to laugh at him later. She lolls her head to the side again.

What was she doing?

The pressure around her temples alleviates itself, relief flooding through her system. Are they still speaking? She tries to focus in on the words being said, tries to make out the features of Beiste. _What a thick neck_, Santana thinks. If pressed, she's certain that the woman would be able to crush a head between her thighs. Her muscles convulse in a chaotic wave.

Fingers press down into her arms, the sensation oddly lingering, as if sandpaper is being drawn across her. Maybe it'll rub away the caramel. She hardly notices the tears anymore, or the wracking sobs. The rubber stopper is pulled from between her lips, her teeth coming down hard against themselves. It causes her to jump. She can feel each crest, each ridge, each solid wave within her mouth. They spark with electricity.

An electricity that is not her own.

She feels robbed. Again.

But what was she doing?

Ghosted smiles paint themselves against the red canvas of her eyes. Brittany. There is something about Brittany. Right? She grabs onto that thought, holding it close and guarded to her chest. Like a precious treasure. There's _something _about Brittany. But what is it?

Universe eyes and unmapped constellations. Blue smoke twisting like the tails of a serpent made of ocean. Clinging lightly to sunshine, exuding something so brilliant everything else stands in awe. (The darkness stands in awe.) Smokey voices, lips pressed tight against a silver microphone, a piano playing broken chords. And there she is. With bright blue eyes, holding her hand out and saying _Dance with me._

As if it's that easy.

There's something about Brittany.

And it doesn't have to do with broken fingers or Terri Schuester.

(_What was she doing?_)

It's the way she flinched. More sobs break Santana's ribs.

* * *

It's soft.

But it smells like urine and various amounts of human waste. The twist of vomit lingers within the fabric, the salt of tears crystallizing threads. Santana feels like she has no head, her muscles aching in all the places she didn't know she had. Her tongue is thick with cotton, her saliva sticky in the back of her throat. The bitter intrusion of rubber still lingers along her taste buds.

She works her jaw unceremoniously, joints crying out in protest. It hurts. There are bound to be bruises left by the large fingers of Beiste, the size of quarters, she thinks. For a moment, Santana feels bad for the woman who had to push that bull of a woman out of her.

_That bull of a woman probably saved your miserable life_.

A snippet of angry fingers and breaking words sparks in her mind. The thick muscle in her right quad twitches. Her stomach twists, eyes closing tighter. As if it can block out the memory swimming like a shark in the back of her mind. (If it stops swimming, will it die too?) She should get up. But it's so soft.

A small strand of hair bristles against her nose, tickling the side of her face. The itch blooms, more annoying than anything. Attempting to be rid of such a foul annoyance, Santana lifts her arm. But she feels nothing. A resistance around her waist. Crinkling her brows tighter, she tries again, a rough canvas bending along her arm.

Maybe she's wrapped up in her blankets. Her heart slowly begins to pick up pace, languid panic beginning to seep through. She rolls over onto her back, her arms crossed firmly around her stomach. That's not right. The itch becomes more insistent. She wiggles her fingers, still taut material warping with her careful experiment.

So she can move.

What, then?

Her arm rises just an inch before she is met with resistance. Letting out a low snarl, the dark beauty peels her eyes open, lids glued together by tears. A bright light glares down at her, the buzzing bulb a brilliant yellow, the coils white hot. Muscles screaming in protest, she forces herself to sit up to better evaluate her situation.

The blaring white (bone white, why does it feel so familiar?) glares up at her, the thick canvas rubbing against her throat. It smells of spit and bleach, little dark splotches dribbled down the front, staining it. Staining her. She twists her head around in a slight panic, pulling her arms from against her sides, her fingers working frantically within the confines of the canvas.

She crosses her legs, her knees spread wide like the wings of a butterfly for better balance, her ribs heaving with her quickening breath. (Modesty be damned.) Santana whips her head around, looking for any way out. But there is none. Only white walls, seeming to be made of pillows (Brittany thinks they look like clouds), the plush sidings drooping from their fastenings upon the wall. If this were a bazaar in Morocco, she would be bathed in colors and the smell of roasting birds over an open spit would linger with the natural spices.

But instead, a dull grey beats down at her. Oppressive and harsh.

She tries her arms again, but it's an action in futility. The outcome is the same, and it will always be the same. The buckles jingle lightly as they settle back into place, a mock happiness that rends her open wider. (Like the great maws of the Destroyer of Worlds, she plummets to the bottom of his gullet.) Her bicep twitches, the convulsion spidering around to pluck at the muscles in her lower back, like a well tuned harp. She is their instrument, and they are her master.

An angry snarl leaps from her throat, starting so deep within her chest, she thinks it might have been conjured from the pits of her hell-fire stomach. A cavity, meant to be filled. Filled with fire. Filled with something other than _blackness_. It seeps into her eyes as she glares about the room.

Her voice is deafening in her ears, fracturing the ambient whoosh of the fan. The sound dies away against the padded walls, the white bleeding through the darkness of her voice. She hates it here. The way her arms are wrapped in a forced embrace. The way the happy little light buzzes.

What did she do to deserve this?

Why is it so hard to _think_?

(She thinks of breaking twigs underneath rubber, and Santana is unsettled.)

But she flinched.

Brittany flinched. There is _something_ about that. And she needs to remember what it is. A desperation begins to fill her, the pound in her head intensifying. This is wrong. This is all wrong. She shouldn't be here. How long has it been?

But there are no windows. No spaces to tell her how much time has been bridged, to tell her what is real and what isn't. The walls of reality are all around her, but how is she to know exactly where she is, or what she was doing prior.

But she flinched.

Why did Brittany flinch?

The question haunts her like a ghost.

* * *

**September 26, 1941**

Brittany sees Dr. Evans only sometimes.

Like right after she had slipped with the pencil. Dr. St. James wanted to speak and evaluate her when he felt she was ready, but Dr. Evans wanted to do a follow up. He tells her to call him Sam. She likes that about him. That and the way he smiles. Sometimes, she wonders if his entire face will be swallowed up by his lips, but it's a happy smile. Something that is typically vacant within white walls and chipped eyes.

He sits next to her on his large leather couch, his legs crossed at the ankle. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, that same boyish smile lighting straight to his eyes. His blonde hair, much like her own, is slicked and shiny, and Brittany always wonders what makes it that way. Like it's plastic. Sometimes, he lets her touch it.

But she doesn't much feel like it today.

There are papers, lost and forgotten, next to him, taking up the third cushion, as if they remain as their own entity. His office is filled with maps and pictures of the night sky, a telescope placed delicately upon a tripod in the far corner. The brass trimming and copper plate around the object reminds Brittany of the future. Or what the future is supposed to be like. But he once told her that it was an aqueduct. She hadn't bothered to argue with him.

"Did you know that kangaroos can't hop backwards?" She offers him a small smile, shrugging her shoulders. She likes this game, but her heart has fallen so far that Brittany finds she doesn't want to play it with him. She tries anyway. Fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, Brittany burns holes into her own knees with her eyes, refusing to look up.

"Did you know that catfish are the only animals who naturally have an odd number of whiskers?"

"Wow, really? Where'd you learn that?" His grin extends further. A sheepish smile, despite herself, flits along her lips.

"They told me."

"They told you," he repeats, a skeptical look upon his face. He raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms in front of himself now. She laughs. Sam always catches her in her mischief. (In fact, he doesn't even think she needs to be here. But try as he might, no one will believe a word he says.)

"Yeah, have you never met Oscar? He lives in the pond and likes it when you bring him pebbles. He likes to eat them, even though I've told him a thousand times that he really shouldn't and he'll get all blocked up." Carefully, Brittany extends her hands out to about two feet before stopping. "He's about this big, you can't really miss him. Unless he doesn't like you."

"Doesn't like me? Everybody likes me," the blonde man jokes, looking mock hurt. "He must just be jealous."

"Oscar only likes other catfish."

"Well, what about you?"

"I'm honorary." She nods sagely, as if her newfound title adds weight.

"I guess I can see the start of some whiskers there," Sam waggles his finger under Brittany's upper lip. She slaps at his hand, a small laugh accompanied by a swift smile begins to close the chasm in her chest.

(Sam thinks that Brittany is beautiful and not fit for tight grimaces and sad frowns.)

"It's your turn."

The young man purses his lips, drawing his hand to his chin, looking up towards the ceiling for the answers. Her sessions with Sam are always this way. It never feels like a place close and confined. A place where she has to be. But rather, it's a place she wants to be, where he shows her things through the telescope ("But the sun is out, you won't be able to see anything!") and where he plays silly games with her.

"Did you know crocodiles can't stick their tongues out?"

"What, yes they can." This time she is the skeptical one.

"No, they can't. I read it somewhere."

"You do it all the time, though." A flash of white teeth and fluttering blue eyes, Sam feels his heart in his throat. He sputters in realization, the laughter deep and rolling from his chest. A rush of red runs to his cheeks as he nods his head.

"Okay, I walked into that one." Pleased with herself, Brittany gives a nod. He leans towards her, as if waiting for a pin to drop, enraptured with the way she stills the silence around them.

"Did you know that," she pauses, her thoughts drifting to chocolate eyes and dark hair. Her smile twists into a dark frown again, a look of keyed concern flashing between Sam's eyebrows. "that there are misterladybugs for the ladybugs, but they don't like to be seen because they think they're too ugly. A man isn't supposed to look like a lady, after all," she pauses, her eyebrows wrinkling in the conundrum that is her life. "Or are they ladies that look like men...regardless, the misterladybugs are just extra sensitive."

"Now I _know_ you're lying, Brittany Pierce." (That's another thing she likes about Sam. He doesn't call her Colt.) "Which one of them trouble makers told you that?" The smile still gracing his lips doesn't falter, but she can read the way he searches her face. As if reading an answer within the book. She's just another fact. Just another anomaly within his little world made of stars and constellations.

The edge of her vision blurs, her fingers pulling tighter at her shirt. Her heart hurts, her stomach hurts, and her mind is doing that thing where it pounds within her skull, pushing against the back of her eyes, as if it's trying to make an escape through her eye sockets. She sets her jaw to work, grinding it hard.

"I just figured, is all. The ladybugs have to be happy too and I heard Mercedes say that no one can be happy without a mister." A current, stronger than electric, spikes through her system, fracturing the tender lattice of her splintering heart. The muscles in her back convulse with a stifled sob, her hands flying from her shirt to hide the tears. To be honest, Brittany hasn't stopped crying.

Since Quinn managed to _drag_ her back to her room (with the help of Puck), she laid awake all night, the tears snaking angry red tears against her flesh. The low howl of wind pressing against the panes of her window sang to her, the eyes lilting and melting further down the wall.

_Why do you cry, beautiful girl?_ They had asked. (Not real.)

Sam's grin falls from his face, his hand rubbing gently circles upon her back. Liquid pools in her palms—hot. The last vestiges of self-control crumble, a sob breaking through her tight throat. "B-but I ain't h-happy with a m-m-mister." It's the first time she's spoken it out loud, the confession laid scarlet against pale lips. (What does the sun look like when depressed?)

(An eclipse?)

(No. It simply fades.)

"I ain't happy." The heels of her hands push hard against her eyes, as if it will staunch the flow of tears threatening to drown her.

"Is that why you don't wear your wedding band?" It doesn't take a genius to notice her misery. Sam has always seen it. In the way she moves, in the way she smiles. In the way the faded green line wraps around her finger. Like a scar. Will it fade? The one on her finger, surely, but…. But. What of the wounds buried so deep, he's scared her very soul has been pierced? What of those?

(In the end, they'll be the only thing left.)

Brittany lets out a bitter laugh, dropping her hands from her face. (And Sam thinks he's never seen her look so jaded.) Red lightning strikes within the whites of her eyes, the blue of her iris hard, like the sapphires they're cut from. "I threw it." Gently, Brittany drags a tentative finger over the vacant lot of skin, her lips twisting into a watery grimace. (Quinn had already told him.)

"Why?" He presses gently. It is his job after all to pull the things she doesn't want to say. To place each of those buried things out upon a table. Open. And unconcealed.

"Because I heard there are leprechauns that eat half-promises and empty wishes. They live under the muck. Oscar says they're rude…" The heavy sigh pulls from his lips, Sam's smile dusting the room in a warm glow. (How does he keep his teeth so white?) She knows she won't get away with avoiding the question, but for now, he lets her cry softly into her hands. The circles on her back never cease.

The swirl. The arc. The bend. Brittany could get lost in the way his palm maps across the horizon of her spine. Calm settles deep in her stomach, the flow of tears slowly reigning themselves into a manageable trickle. Sniffing loudly, Brittany wipes away the mess upon the loose sleeve of her shirt. (She really should stop picking.)

"Did I ever tell you about my telescope?" Sam suddenly asks. Shaking her head, she dares to peek up at him. "Well," the young man stands, the shock white of his long coat accenting the glistening of his teeth further. Brittany likes the way the black embroidered _E_ curves into the _v_ on his breast pocket. The _S_ at the beginning is swooping. All-encompassing. Much like the young man's personality. Like a protector. A guardian. He idly walks over to stand by the contraption.

"When I was young, my father was drafted into the war. It was hard, because not only did she have me to look after, but Ma had to look after my just-born brother. The sister wasn't along quite yet. We lived in a little house, with only just a wood stove to keep us warm," he passes his hand lovingly over the telescope, the memories cast deep within the valleys of his eyes. "He wrote to us weekly, speaking of all the grand and glorious things that he was doing in order to keep us safe—he once saved a cow from a flooded river, did you know that?

"We didn't have much money. We never did. But when he came home, my father was a quiet man. Much changed. It was written all across his face—"

"Was he sad?" Brittany lightly touches the bandages wrapped securely around her wrist. (As much as it itches, she isn't supposed to scratch.)

"I think he was," a heavy undercurrent carries through his words. "But he still loved us the same. He was just more distant." The moment is extremely personal, but Sam always has a point. He always does. Brittany waits for him to continue while he brushes his hand along the top of the cylinder. "Money was getting tighter and tighter, and sometimes we'd even go without food, so long as we had wood on the stove and clothes on our backs. But one day, my father came home from work with a little bundle wrapped in his arms." He traces a little circle around a particular point upon the brass plating.

"Ma was right furious when he placed the little brass hunk of junk down upon the kitchen counter, the tarnish so bad, she was scared to even let it near our silverware." He chuckles. "'What do we need a damned telescope for, Dwight. We got mouths to feed, and you spend every last penny we have on that blasted tea kettle!' Ma was not happy to say the least. But he poured himself into fixing it up all nice and piece by piece my daddy came back.

"He told me the story of this thing many years later, after I had been accepted into school. He said, 'I was walkin' home, comin' off late from the shift, when I happened to pass by that little store down on Marion—you know the one—and a little girl sat with them little yellow ribbons in her hair and she sat on this little stool with one leg broke and she had this little bundle in her arms. I ain't never been a star man, Sam, so I didn't know what a telescope was, or what it was used for, but she was so excited 'bout the damn thing.

"She was the daughter of them shop owners there and would wave to me every day. I decided to stop once, helpin' her to fix that damn stool when she started to talk 'bout it. Stuff 'bout them constellations and things bigger than herself, she was cuter than a little bug. One day, she didn't show. The next day neither. Or the next. A week went by and when I didn't see her once, I decided to go in 'n ask after her. That damn telescope, it sat in them little display cases, and when I asked 'bout it, they told me she had died. I didn' return for a whole year.

"I took them longer side roads jus' to avoid it. But one day, I found myself walkin' down that there street and ducked in. The telescope was still on display 'n the attendant kep' sayin' that no one wanted no hunk of shit like that. So I bought it. 'N took it home. 'N cleaned it. 'N now lookit it. Just 'cuz it's different, don't mean it ain't somethin'. Ain't nothin' better.'"

_Ain't nothin' better_.

"It's simply wonderful," Brittany blurts. She wipes furiously at her eyes again, seeking solace within the story. Wrapping her arms tightly around her midsection, she takes a deep calming breath. Sam smiles at her, nodding his head. (She thinks of crushed orchids and bleeding violet against her palms. A faint buzz starts on her lips, the tight ring around her finger shackling. But it's there no longer.)

(_It's there no longer_.)

"I'm the telescope, Sam," she begins. He nods his head again, his smile encouraging. He moves back to sit down next to her, his blue eyes alight with confidence. Hands trembling, Brittany sniffs again. "Ain't nobody want me because I don't serve a purpose."

"Oh, Brittany, you serve a purpose. Who would I play 'did you know' with? And what about Oscar?" (Always looking up at the sky, Brittany Pierce has seen the universe with her universe eyes.)

"I only make people do silly things." The fresh tang of metallic red infiltrates her senses, the horrified screams scooping down further into her chest. A shudder rocks her body.

"What do you mean?"

"Santana."

"Santana?" He purses his lips, staring hard at her. "You mean the Lopez woman?"

"Quinn says she's bad." Much to her chagrin, Brittany begins picking at a loose thread upon the hem of her shirt.

"What do you think?"

"I don't think she means to be." She shrugs her shoulders, tasting cinnamon, wanting for chocolate eyes. "What did they do to her?"

He places a hand upon her shoulder, shaking his head softly. "I don't know." The lie is evident in his voice, a wound knifed between her ribs. Brittany winces away from him.

"I th-think," she stammers. The wound bleeds thickly. "she's my South."

Sam gives her a long stare, pulling his hand back slowly. "What does that mean?"

"If I'm the telescope," Sam swallows during the pause, a sense of dread beginning to claw up his throat. "She's your daddy." A cloud pours over his head with her revealing answer. Sam's smile fades from his face.

* * *

That happy little light.

She's come to detest its very happy little existence. The Warder comes to her that day with some more grayish slop they think contends as food, offering it to her with a gentleness of a wolverine. Neither of them speak, but a smirk always lights the hawkish features. Santana refuses to mention her wrong. Refuses to allow herself to be manipulated into a battle she knows she cannot win.

When the bowl is empty, Sue leaves.

And Santana goes back to glaring at the light. She rests within the far corner facing what she now can recognize as the door. 'Never sit with your back to a door, _nieta_,' abuelo had once told her. How long has she been in here?

It can't be more than a day, can it?

_Yes_, _it can_.

Muscles still under the command of an invisible force spasm every once and a while, but not as frequently as they had hours previous. _This is much worse than a bath_, she thinks. Leaning her head back against the wall, she closes her eyes, exhaustion clinging to her like an incessant child. But every time she does, she sees gold spun hair and smells vanilla.

She licks her lips softly.

It's a perversion. A sickness. A weakness. Addiction.

_The women?_

No.

Just Brittany.

* * *

**September 27, 1941**

She flinched.

Why did she flinch?

Blue eyes should never look at her that way. Never. Stars should never die, Santana decides. Especially not in the eye of one such as her. Grinding her teeth till she worries they might turn to dust, Santana stays in her corner, the gaping void of blue eyes nearly swallowing her.

And she deserves it.

It had been her goal previous to avoid the blonde in all facets (much to her obvious failure), but now she finds the very idea of earning the hatred of Brittany to be the most unbearable punishment that could be inflicted. It stings along her flesh, rending it open beneath the surface like the wicked tongue of a barbed whip.

The happy light buzzes.

* * *

**September 28, 1941**

Ever since the ordeal with Terri, the woman has been constantly reminding everyone exactly what happened to her in as much detail as possible. With added embellishments. Brittany finds it hard to stomach, especially during group therapy and during their free time. She sits in the circle now, her arms crossed tightly around her chest, a sour frown upon her face.

The rain finally let up that morning, leaving the grounds in a soggy state of disrepair, the creeping chill settling into the bones of the old manor like a forgotten friend. The tip of Brittany's nose is pink, but she can't quite tell if it's because of the cold or because of her rage. Either is acceptable.

She sinks lower into her chair, her legs crossed at the knee.

"—and that hoodlum of a woman reached out, pinning me with her strong hands, and when I told her 'no, I am a God-loving woman and such things are against His nature' she grabbed my hand and broke my finger like it was nothing but a stick!" The circle lets out a small gasp. Brittany hears a couple of how-awfuls mix with poor-yous. The anger sparks between her eyes, crinkling her brow in distaste. She takes a little satisfaction at the ugly, thick, white plaster surrounding the other woman's hand.

"She really tried to _kiss_ you, Terri?"

"Yeah, I heard she doesn't have eyes for anyone except…" Brittany can feel inquisitive stares beginning to turn towards her, the flush on her face bleeding out further, the grip on her biceps tightening to an almost painful vice.

"She did! I swear by it! How am I supposed to lead the choir during service this eve? Hm? I can still _taste_ the way she tried to _invade_ me!" Terri's eyes are wide and fluttering, the panic that always seems to swim there intensifying. Brittany works her jaw harder. "She's an abomination!" The dark venom of rage builds within the blonde's chest. "It's no wonder they locked her up! Poor Brittany's had to deal with the brunt of such a brutish woman for so long. It's no wonder she cries all the time." A couple of people flick her a passing glance but return back to Terri when she starts up again. "It's a good thing I'm here, even if I had to pay the price with my finger, but these things will fade. Someone has to do the hard things."

"You're so admirable, Terri," someone says. Brittany doesn't care enough to identify them, she's too busy attempting to quell the angry serpent threatening to rise. (It's a losing battle.)

"To stave of such foul attraction, from a nigger girl no less. God was on your side."

"I've tried to cleanse myself of her, but I find it still all very upsetting," a mist begins to form in Terri's eyes. As if on cue. Because it is a cue. "I know I'm beautiful but—"

"Santana would never kiss _you_," Brittany hisses. Bane replaces blood. "She doesn't even _like _you."

"Now, now, Brittany, _everyone_ gets a chance to speak their mind during group therapy," the effeminate doctor says, feeling the session beginning to leave his control. "Even if we don't really care," he mutters under his breath. His glasses are perched upon the very tip of his nose, his head half bald and beginning to blotch with speckles of red.

"Of course she did, you were there, you saw it. You're just confused, sweetheart," Terri's voice is coated so thick with sugar, Brittany thinks she very might well get a cavity. Granted, she'd rather have a cavity than talk to Terri Schuester.

"I'm _not_ confused. _You're_ confused if you think Santana would even give you the time of day!" Struggling to keep her voice at a manageable level, Brittany can feel the half-moon imprints being made into her arms by her nails.

"Oh Brittany, of course you are. It's okay, you don't have to be scared anymore." From across the circle, Terri begins to stand, her hand reaching out to touch the younger woman. She recoils away, deep embers burning within oceanic blue.

"You're _mean_, Terri Schuester. Santana doesn't mean to do bad things, but you're that infuriating child that likes to put cute little cinnamon-flavored goldfish in bags and shake them until they stop swimming. You're a _bully_ and you're _mean_ and I think maybe you ought to stop talking before I break your other finger." Everyone gapes at her, the doctor watching her with his jaw unhinged.

"Do you see what the power of the Devil has done to the easily addled mind of poor, sweet Brittany?" the older woman squeaks.

"She is NOT the DEVIL." It pulls out of her in a sudden roar, her body suddenly flying up to stand toe-to-toe with the other woman. Brittany easily dwarfs her in size, her lithe form seeming to hulk over Terri.

A harsh whistle pierces the din of the room, Brittany refusing to look away from Terri to find the source. Neither back down.

"Crayola!" Brittany leans in closer, her face merely inches away from Terri's. The other woman wavers for just a split second before steeling her resolve once again. The blonde watches the muscles tense under Terri's eye. A light dusting of red flushes the older woman's cheeks. She leans in closer still, watching the fear flash through corn blue eyes.

"_Crayola!_" This time a firm hand grabs the back of her neck, forcing her shoulders to retreat up. (She doesn't like being touched there, it makes her writhe.) Her skin begins to crawl as she is guided a couple steps back and pushed back down into her chair.

"Frills, you're supposed to be keeping this shitting circle under control," the Warder rounds, her hand still firmly in place upon Brittany's neck. "Not let it run rampant with diarrhea. Christ, how hard is it to keep a few little kookadillos from wetting their panties?"

Terri shoots Brittany a smug grin before she also returns to her seat. Her heart beats with the drum of anger, fire still burning within her veins. The older woman looks like a cat. A stupid. Fat. Cat. No. Not even a cat. Because that would be an insult to Lord Tubbington. To be even _considered_ in the same genus as _her_.

Why hadn't she thought of that before?

Brittany glowers.

(There isn't an animal she could think of that deserves to be grouped with Terri.)

"I'm sorry, it was all _too_ interesting," he says, a slight lisp against his tongue.

"No, the mating ritual of the Sibernese leaping beetle, that's interesting, not some petty squabble about some Egyptian squaw!" Brittany narrows her eyes at this. She isn't sure what a squaw is, but somehow, she doesn't feel that it fits Santana very well.

"I don't think—" she begins before the grip upon her neck tightens.

"And if I see another outburst like this again, it'll be straight to the room with you, Crayola. Got it?" Which room? There are a lot of rooms. Brittany wrinkles her nose before nodding her head, not wanting to agitate the woman further. The Warder pushes herself away from the blonde, as if reviled by the very infraction of touching her. She nods her head once before returning to stand in the corner of the room.

Brittany doesn't dare to watch her leave, but instead searches for the brown-green hazel of Quinn's stare. But she doesn't see it. Doing a quick sweep of the room, she finds that the nurse is no where. (For a second, Brittany worries that she might have been eaten by the walls, but tosses that aside as a silly notion. Only Sue can move through the walls so easily.)

"Is there anyone else who would like to share?" the doctor asks, tapping his pen upon the paper. When no one moves to answer, he lets out a violent sigh. "Come on, people, I don't have all day. There is still ten minutes before I can release you back out into the wild, so someone regale us with another watery revelation before I shoot myself out of sheer boredom." He rolls his eyes, the sass dripping from his tongue.

Righting herself in her seat, Brittany notices the still smug look upon Terri's face. If only she could just…The fury boils a new, but the threat from the Warder still tingles along the back of her neck. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Brittany fumes.

Crossing her arms over her chest tighter, she stares daggers out the window. She wishes it was raining. Then, at least there would be some sort of movement to keep her mind off of the way everyone still stares at her. Santana isn't the Devil. And nobody should talk that way about her. Why does Terri get away with it? And when she stands to defend herself, she gets thrown down. Yelled at. Reprimanded.

She thinks of static shocks and light kisses. Of dark fingers curled within her hair, a smoked voice cooing against her skin. The scent of cinnamon never truly fades from beneath her nose, the dark aroma weaving its way between her muscles, taking the places of tendons. She remembers a buzz at her lips and a groan paralyzed in her chest. She remembers humidity and filtered yellow light.

Her skin prickles, dancing with something she doesn't know how to name. But does it need a name?

(Its name is _Santana_.)

* * *

The first thing she notices is that god-awful musk. The horribly abrasive stench of man smell makes her nose wrinkle, Santana fighting the urge to wretch. The second thing she notices is her arms. They hang limply at her sides, her fingers free to scratch at things left to annoy her for days. (The first thing she does is itch that first spot on her face, goosebumps cropping up along her arms at the instant relief.)

The last thing she notices is that the fucking happy buzzing is gone. It's gone. Santana is so happy, she could almost cry. But she doesn't. Bitterly, she thinks _Fuck your light_. Letting out a pleased sigh, she buries herself deep into the chest of the one carrying her. (She assumes she's being carried, mostly because the world is moving all about her.) Strong arms support her, the low chuckle rumbling against her ear.

She forces her eyes open, the pleased grin of Puck looking down at her. If she had any energy, Santana would feel angry at him. The best she can be, however, is indignant, a weak glare being tossed his way.

"Good mornin', lady. Have a nice sleep?" He knows that's far from the truth, but he would rather make light of the situation than remind Santana of the days spent in confinement.

"Where the fuck were you?"

"Playin' Betsy Loo—what'd you think I was doin'? Cleanin' up after your mess!" He shakes his head. "You really gotta stop lungin' at people. Or at least give me a signal so I can holdja back." She bristles in his arms, considering their close proximity. Rolling her eyes, she lets out a huff.

"I would say sorry, but I'm not. That bitch had it coming."

"Yeah, but you should see how she goes on, now." It's his turn to roll his eyes. "She's taken to callin' you Satan." The young woman barks out a laugh.

"Fitting. Think I should light a matchstick and throw it at her?" With all the hot air between her ears, she isn't so sure if putting Terri next to an open flame would be such a wise idea. A dark smirk lights her face.

"Nah, she might combust." They both share another laugh. A silence settles over them, Puck easily bearing her weight. His steps make light taps against the tile, the otherwise still hallway long and empty. They round a corner and she knows she's almost back to her room.

(_Flinched_.)

Her lips tremble, her mouth suddenly going drier than bones in a desert. Clearing her throat, she pushes the question out forcibly. "Brittany?" Puck regards her for a long moment, his eyebrows screwing up, trying to decide what she is trying to ask. Pushing his tongue against the inside of his lips and rolling it around, he finally comes to a conclusion.

"Quinn said she ain't good."

The shame settles in over her like a blanket, her throat tight as she tries to swallow. _Great going, Santana_, she reprimands. _Yes, first kiss her, then break a girl's goddamn finger in front of her. Brilliant plan. Flawless really._ _You certainly know how to charm the cats_. Anger at herself passes a dark look across her face, heat beginning to rise off of her. Puck looks down at her again.

"She's been cryin' a lot." It feels like a blow to the stomach, the wind rushing right out of her lungs, leaving her gasping. (Nothing should make the sun weep.) She shouldn't be the reason for her tears. More anger. A girl like Brittany should never be sad. Not like that. (After all, the sun is made of fire.)

Noticing her silence, Puck doesn't press the issue. They arrive at her room moments later, Santana struggling out of his grasp. A protest hot on his lips she shakes her head. "Go stick it in someone who cares," she snarls. Pulling open the door, she slams it shut behind herself

"_Jefe_ said him and your gran'ma will be comin' by later this week to see how you're doin'. Just thought you'd like ta know." She had forgotten about them. About how the only reason why she is here in the first place is because of _them_. Santana's heart sinks to the floor, the weakly beating muscle sitting at her toes like a bright red offering. She'd forgotten almost everything other than _Brittany_.

(When had it started?)

(When does it end?)

(_Never_.)

She doesn't bother replying back to Puck, instead dragging her lead limbs towards her bed. Looking out the window, she can see the weak, blue sky, patchy grey clouds running like corruption through the endless canvas. It seems wrong that Brittany isn't standing there, her muscles flexed, body poised like a dancer. That she isn't gripping the little sill with her beautiful fingers, drawing herself up to look out, her nose barely reaching the lip.

With her face painted in moonlight.

Shame grips her again, her eyes drifting over towards Brittany's bed, marking the way the blankets look disheveled and haphazard. The overwhelming urge to bury her face within the other woman's clothing is staggering. As if pulled by an invisible rope, Santana surges forward, her shaky hand gripping the blanket, the rough material unpleasant to say the least. But she doesn't care. Allowing control to be thrown to the wind within the privacy of her own room, she rubs it against her cheek.

Sunshine and vanilla.

Threading her fingers through the material she inhales deeper, the buzz beginning within her mind hitting her hard as a truck. She staggers again, but this time drunk. Drunk off Brittany. If she can't kiss her and can't touch her, then this would have to do. It would have to do.

Secretly, she switches their blankets and then goes to stand by the window.

Satisfied.

* * *

Brittany dislikes the way that Quinn finds her after dinner, the honey blonde's jaw set tight and stern, staring at her like she's done something wrong. But she hadn't. Did she forget to do something again? A sense of dread begins to eat away at her. Was she finally going to get to see the peacocks? (She suspects that they aren't actually real, but doesn't want to tell Quinn that.)

"You have a call."

A call?

On the phone?

Her heart begins moving fast, excitement already flooding through her. No one ever calls her. Leaping up from her seat, she falls into line behind the nurse, an easy smile lighting her features. A call. For her!

Quinn leads her down the twisting hallways, passing the nurses station where a little wooden booth sits just off to the side. Motioning towards it, the honey blonde opts to lean against the wall, her eyes disinterestedly taking in the state of her nails (she thinks they need a recoat). Brittany's grin splits wider as she sits down upon the little bench, reaching down to grab the receiver.

"Hello?" She asks, worried for a second that this might be some childish prank. The hiss on the other end doesn't bode well to calm her nerves.

"Ladybell." The smooth tones break over her like a cresting wave. She fears she might just break the receiver in half, her palms suddenly slick with sweat. Words stick, like barbs within her throat. (Four beats of her heart.) "How're you doing, sugarpie?"

Panicked, Brittany tries to look at Quinn behind her, is met with the high back of the wooden booth. Her insides clench with fear, as if his voice lashes against her violently. She can feel his palm pressing down against her throat, his hips burning deep into her. Tears prick the edges of her eyes.

"…mon…" she croaks out, her voice sounding meek and uncertain. She clears her throat, the words dislodging themselves temporarily. "Simon."

"I haven't heard your voice is so long, thought it was about time I called you." If she didn't know any better, she would almost think he was genuine. She smiles, though he cannot see her. There is no joy behind it. "Listen, sugar, there's something that I need to be getting off my chest and I know you'll be real sore with me, but there just isn't any way around it." He sighs on the other end.

"Is Lord Tubbington in trouble?" she blurts. The worry nearly consumes her until she hears him laugh. A flush spreads along her cheeks.

"No, _no_," Brittany can't help but catch the anger edging his words. She grips the phone tighter. "He's fine." He mumbles something under his breath that is lost through the miles of electric lines.

"Oh, good." Her voice is stilted.

"No, it's about _Santi_." Blood snap freezes to rivers of ice. Brittany regrets eating.

"S-Santi? Who's that? Did Tubbs get another ladycat pregnant?" She whispers a silent plea under her breath.

"Don't play stupid with me, Brittany," he snaps. She recoils away from the receiver as if it bit her.

"But Simon I don't—"

"That blistering _bitch_ sharing your room." As if it's a valid explanation. Her anger flares again, but is quickly overridden by fear.

"What about her?" She asks, hoping to hide the waver in her words.

"Sugarpie, I know how much you love to take in pieces of junk, but I'm warning you. You need to stay away from her." Brittany allows her end of the line go quiet. "I don't want you to get attached to things you _can't keep_."

"What?"

"I'm going to kill her, ladybell. Please make no mistake."

The other end of the line goes dead.

Kill her? Why would Simon want to _kill_ her? (Real. Real. Real?)

Pulling in a gasping breath, Brittany carefully places the receiver back in the cradle, her face ghastly pale. Quinn pretends not to notice, but the blonde can see the fear also coursing through the hazel eyes. Walking briskly, the honey blonde delivers her straight to the room, nodding her head as Brittany lightly grips the door handle, her head a swimming pool of ice.

Maybe she had dreamed it?

She's seen him at night, his hands wrapped around her throat, little pieces of spittle dappling his clean jaw. His teeth gnashing, eyes wild. She's felt him pierce the flesh of her belly with a long, wicked rod, the silver tip glinting against green glass. Heard him whisper, his breath hot and sticky against her skin.

Heard him say he'll be the death of her.

But Santana? Why Santana?

She doesn't catch the way Quinn says "I'm sorry," or the way the nurse turns on her heel and retreats down the hallway, crystals in her eye. A tremor shakes her as she twists the handle, her vision white and unseeing. The door snaps closed behind her, Brittany finding relief in the way her back hits the cool wall.

But something is different.

Cinnamon coaxes at her chest, the promise of chocolate eyes and raven hair bleeding back into her vision. And standing at the window, her head tilted towards the sky, is Santana. Relief and dread pours through her veins, but she moves on her own.

Simon can't have her.

(_He can't have her because…_)

The blonde lunges, an explosion of emotions bursting for attention, her brows twisting with relief, her eyes brimming with anxious tears and her lips buzzing with something she doesn't understand, but knows. (In a world where the sun stands in awe of the darkness, how do they live?)

(She doesn't know, but she intends to find out.)

Without a word between them, Brittany wraps her arms tightly around Santana's waist, her nose running through her silken soft hair. Just holding her close isn't enough. (It'll never be enough.) Without thinking. Without second guessing herself. Without stilling. Brittany slips her finger beneath _her_ dark Latina's chin and finds those red, plush lips she's always longed for.

(And so it will always be.)

* * *

**Author's Note: Annnd, I'm back. See, lovelies, never fear. Also. For those of you who DON'T know, I've wisely decided to actively AVOID season 4, so. I still love Sam. So, sorry to demystify some of you. I'm pretty sure at least SOME of you thought Simon was Sam. I honestly considered it, but well. I just couldn't bring myself to do it.**

**Anyway, reactions? Thoughts? Simon? Crazy bastard, yes? Terri? Quinn? Puuuccck? Beiste? Anyone got any speculations for what the future brings? I always love hearing those.**

**Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed (ya'll are the foundation of my life), lurked, faved, followed, loved, and hated this story. The hits just keep piling up, but we all know how much I love it when you speak up. Extra special thanks to my handsomely charming beta Swinging Cloud (don't tell her I said she was handsome OR charming, it might go to her head) for helping me wage the war on hyphens. Because apparently them little bitches hate me as much as I hate them. **

**Anyway, I'll see you all next week. Hopefully. We'll see. Because like. Grand Theft Auto. (But seriously I'll be back next week.)**

**/heart **


	8. Into the Eyes of the Eyeless

**Chapter 8: Into the Eyes of the Eyeless**

_and the twisted mouth_

The rain sprinkles like piano notes against the window, littering the room in a fantastic kaleidoscope of bouncing color, the peeking sun still weakly struggling through the clouds. Red. Yellow. Blue. Green. Orange. Purple. (_Magenta_.) Swirling against the tiles. Swirling against her skin and all Santana can see is the back of universe eyes and endless oceanic tides.

And she thinks: _This is what forever feels like_.

In a place so broken. With unforgiving walls. And warm lips pressed firm, insistent to hers. She leans in, heart at her throat, hands placed atop the blonde's. Santana wants to know what it all feels like. What this all means. Even through misunderstandings. Through stolen blankets and unshed tears. She wants to always know _her_.

Brittany.

Because there's nothing more important to Santana. Her throat constricts, her fingers burning circles within the blonde's hand. Like a vastness rending itself wider, she aches, muscles quivering and pumping to the scent of vanilla. There is urgency in the way Brittany's lips flutter against hers, one reserved for those dying.

(How many lifetimes has she lived?)

Strong fingers grip the clothing at her waist tighter, roughly pulling her closer, like what little space between them very well may be an entire ocean. Santana's pelvis knocks against Brittany's, the coiled, tight muscles leaping within her abdomen. Breath washes over her face, their lips separating, though just barely.

Her head swims and buzzes, the symphony of raindrops a light canvas against deep blue eyes. She can count every freckle running the bridge of her nose. Map every constellation in those eyes hidden by thick lashes. A dusting of pink spreads along pale cheeks, her breath coming hard and fast. Intensity manifests, deep and startling, Brittany's gentle hands rubbing lightly against her hips, fingers trailing through the clothing, crisscrossing and patterning themselves into the intricacies of her flesh.

And Santana is breathless.

The wind sings softly, her shoulders finding purchase against a wall, Brittany pressed to her. She stares up at the blonde, mouth dry, heart leaping against her chest. There is a knowing look within blue eyes. As if she can feel the frantic thrumming. As if she knows. A ghosted smile (only for _her_) flicks around reddened lips. Fingers thread through her own, slowly guiding a caramel palm to run up the curve of Brittany's wonderfully long neck. She shivers, silken skin slipping beneath her, blonde locks grazing the tips of her fingers before being parted by joined desire.

Brittany works her fingers out from between Santana's, gently urging the woman to thread her fingers back into her hair like she had in the greenhouse. The blonde runs her fingers down the plane of her forearm, caressing a light circle in the crook of her arm before she continues on. Desire coils tighter, wound like a clock within the pit of Santana's inferno. She bites down on her lip, stifling the gasp and trying to will away the shivers threatening to betray her.

Brittany's fingers leave tongues of flame in their wake, until all Santana can do is bite her lip harder, a stifled whine leaking from between her teeth. Her hand trembles from its tentative position at the base of the blonde's skull, soft locks hiding her in a brilliant veil. She shouldn't. This shouldn't be happening. She's supposed to get better. Blue eyes burn deeper into her.

(But why would she want to be anywhere without _Brittany_?)

The greedy wall sucks the heat pouring from her back until it's gorged. Brittany's fingers continue to travel down the length of her arm until it meets her side. She pauses for a minute, Santana's heart working harder with each passing second. Every nerve fires with want. Every throb of her heart heats the lust between her legs.

Is it lust?

In this moment she realizes: no.

It's something deeper. Something older. Something much bigger than the desire of flesh. With universe eyes taking her all in, looking through her, hands snaking their way down her side, shivers ripping her body. It's not lust. It's something she can't fight. So she won't.

With a fierce determination, Santana twines her fingers, her lips eagerly finding those of Brittany's. If the blonde is surprised, she doesn't show it, her fingers continuing their lazy trail down her side, her breath fanning over Santana's face in that same maddening way. It's like she's suspended in darkness, her body losing all sense. All purpose. Because all that she is, is Brittany. And that's all that matters.

For once in her life, Santana doesn't feel like she has to live up to expectations. That she is perfect in every way, if only for the wonderful woman now trailing her fingers along the quivering muscles of her hip. Unexpectedly, Santana jumps at the contact, a spike of pleasure rippling through her (much like robbed control, but she drowns the thought). It's hot and blinding, the constellations of Brittany's eyes burning through her own lids.

She parts their lips, her tongue gently swiping over plush flesh, a groan poorly stifled deep within her chest. A soft gasp presses into her mouth, Brittany's fingers jerking along her hip, shaking the groan lose, Santana's skin heating further. It prickles within that low stoked fire, desire overwhelming the dark haired Latina. She deepens the kiss, her tongue moving to invade, Brittany a willing partner, her hand wandering around the curve of Santana's hip to rest along her backside.

Santana's lungs burn, her other hand reaching up to join its twin, fingers greedy to feel scalp beneath them. Just a little more. (She will never be full off of Brittany.) It's endless, her heart beating in time with the other woman's. And Santana is happy, blood waltzing to the patter of raindrops and the pounding of bated breaths. Slowly, she pulls back, her mouth buzzing with sunshine and vanilla. Eyes half lidded, Brittany's chest heaves against hers as she tries to also steady herself.

(_Is this what it's like to live under the sea?_)

They stay like that, inches between them for what seems like years before the threads barely containing Brittany's eyes begin to fall lose, molten tears brimming at the edge of her vision. Santana's heart twists, her fingers fumbling through hair until they cup rosy cheeks, thumbs gently brushing away the dampness. A heated forehead collides with her own, Brittany's breaking sobs mismatched with her beautiful smile.

"C'mon," Santana tries, her voice feeling foreign. "I can't be that bad." Worry erodes the her already frayed nerves, her movements frantic.

_Please don't cry_.

She begs with her eyes. Because if Brittany regrets it, Santana is certain she'll die. Her breath stills in her chest as she waits for some sort of reply. What if she does regret it? She has to regret it. There's no way she doesn't. It's already written across her face, the way her eyebrows crease tightly, the way her smile warps into something less than. The broken vestiges of her too weak porcelain heart begin to crumble, Santana trying furiously to quell the terrified tremors shaking her hands.

Brittany chokes out a watery laugh. "It hurts."

The words ring like a stone thrown in a glass house. Deflated, Santana stills her fingers upon the blonde's cheeks, her eyes growing lackluster. (She's reminded of green eyes and broken pianos, the scent of mildew clinging to the static air.) Hastily, she begins to build the barbed walls back up around herself, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. (They still buzz with vanilla.)

(_How can sunshine and darkness be happy together?_)

Firm hands, still around her hips, press into her deeper, the intensity in Brittany's eyes returning tenfold. Seriousness wipes everything else away from her face, as if she knows what the other woman is thinking. "The way I feel, it hurts, Santana."

"Why?" Her voice is distant, a weak reflection as her walls continue to build themselves higher. (It's really pointless though. Brittany will always find a way to get through, but she doesn't know that yet.)

"I'm scared." More tears fall and Santana can't help but brush them back. "Because my chest feels like one of those things daddy used to use to stoke the fires in his study—not that he needed one, but he seemed to like it—and instead of air being pulled in, I feel like as much as I try, I just can't expand. Everything is bursting and every time I see you my heart starts to beat so much that I'm scared the inside of my chest is bruised and I was so scared that you weren't going to be coming back and—" The words tumble out of her mouth, before being abruptly cut off by another sniffle.

Relief floods through Santana's system as she offers the taller woman a small, reassuring smile. (The thing about walls is they're pointless when the foundation itself has been removed.) She brushes her thumb under her cheek again, cooing softly under her breath. Heart pounding harder, she waits for the blonde to continue, hanging on her every word.

"Everyone says you're bad—Terri called you the Devil, earlier, but I told her that I would break her other finger if she spoke so sourly again—and I expect it of Simon, but Quinn doesn't much like you, but she never says why. Sometimes you scare me, but only because I think you know what you're doing is bad, but you just can't hold it in all the time and you don't know how to make it less aggressive, those feelings." Brittany pauses to take a breath, the intensity in her eyes growing brighter. Santana finds herself fidgeting, her fingers twitching along red, blotchy cheeks.

"But it's okay, because you're just looking for something, and you've been put into this place. I know it's hard, but it's okay because I'm here, Santana. And even if I'm scared and even if Quinn doesn't like you—though I think she might just be scared, too—I still can't help the way I feel whenever I see you."

"I've already found it," Santana reveals. As soon as the words leave her mouth, she wishes she could catch them and shove them back down her throat. Heat floods brighter along her caramel skin. Anger spikes in the back of her mind. _Fucking idiot! _It screams.

"O..h.." Brittany's shoulders drop, her eyes tearing away from her own. The blonde gathers her bottom lip between her teeth and chews lightly as if trying to figure out what to say next. Soothe her. But Santana has never soothed anyone in her life, her muscles panicking as they all vie for attention. "It's Rachel, isn't it." The words drop as a statement.

"Oh yes, it's _Rachel_." Sarcasm drips, Santana rolling her eyes. Brittany backs away, anger exploding then dying in a brilliant flash within deep blue eyes. She stumbles over her words, trying to force out the bite. "No!" She catches Brittany's wrist before she can pull away altogether.

(The flutter of her heart beats under the thin skin.)

"No. It's not Rachel. Jesus would be hard pressed to have patience with that fiendish midget." She wrinkles her nose, tugging the blonde back towards her. A childish glimmer returns to universe eyes as she presses herself closer. And just like that Santana is falling back into that endless eternity beyond Brittany's pupil. She looks at her expectantly, as if she wishes for Santana to continue.

Apprehension grips at the base of her throat, slowly worming its way up. What is she supposed to say? With those eyes watching her. With the sound of the rain pattering lightly above her head. (With melted mouths and invisible eyes pressed against her shoulders.) There's something about Brittany. But Santana doesn't know what to call it yet. (She does, but she's too scared to admit.)

"I'm not good at making people like me, Brittany," is all she can manage. A low exhale and breath feeds over her face, tickling the nerves that so desperately crave for the blonde's kisses. The blonde's eyes flick up towards the window before settling upon Santana. Five seconds later it happens again.

"That's okay, because I don't want anyone else to like you." The admonishment is subtle, the hidden _don't be silly_ written between her words. A mischievous smirk ghosts against her lips, Santana's stomach flipping within the confines of her skin.

She should say something.

There has to be something else she can say.

Desperate for anything, Santana begins to look around the room searching for any point of interest. (If only Brittany knew.) The dull throb still aching her flesh intensifies, Brittany's body pressing even closer to her own. Her lips buzz in anticipation, her eyes drawn to the hollow of the blonde's throat, a light _beat, beat, beat_ pressing against the underside of her jaw.

She could just…

Suddenly, Santana is staring at the low expanse of flesh between the rise of a breast and the collar bone. Her lips graze the soft slope, her hands trembling as she places them upon Brittany's hips. She tries to focus, but there's only this. So achingly close to the woman, her hands try to ground herself, but further intensify the fire quickly replacing her blood.

_You should move_, she thinks to herself, but finds herself literally caught between the wall and Brittany's pressing form. (It doesn't occur to her at the time to wonder what the blonde is actually doing.) _It would be so easy to…_She stops the thought before it can completely blossom, the heat in her face long since expanding to the base of her neck. She allows her eyes to lid.

Vanilla surrounds her, wrapping the dark haired Latina in the endless expanse of white and warmth. She's like summer rain. A refreshing turn to the otherwise blistering heat that the sun can provide. She clings to Santana in every facet, just by being near. Brittany saturates her. Fills her. Makes her whole. It's a startling revelation, but not an unwelcome one. Santana presses her face closer, only worrying a little about her familiarity.

(_"They're nothing, Santi. Little bitches scurrying for every last scrap a man has to offer. They just need a strong hand to teach them."_)

A nameless weight falls upon her shoulders, her arms securely locking themselves around Brittany's waist. _I'll kill him_. The black darkness of Simon's corruption slithers along her spine. She can almost smell him on Brittany. She pulls the other woman closer.

Slowly, Brittany brings herself back down, Santana hooking her chin over her shoulder so she doesn't risk letting the blonde take a look into her eyes. To see the anger there. To scare her away. She doesn't want Brittany to be scared. Or to hurt. She doesn't deserve any of that.

And nobody deserves Simon.

(A fresh line extends through the fog of the window, ending in Brittany's lingering fingerprint. Condensation beads.)

* * *

**September 29, 1941**

It's been weeks since she's worn anything but starched white and red caps. The fire pops in the place, red bricks flickering with waves of heat, the rows of books lining the walls casting the room in a low, comforting glow. It smells musty, but only as a library or study should. A tumbler full of dark brandy sits against the back wall beneath a large painting, the strokes detailed and large against the red drapes surrounding it.

Quinn never much cared for the scene. A white horse dappled brown (or maybe it's dried blood) rears in the middle of chaos, bloated bodies of fallen comrades and the angry glint of bayonets muffled by the forever silent blast of gunpowder. A windmill stands on a precipice in the back, angry flames licking the extended arms, reducing it to nothing but ash.

It is a recent addition to the study. A gift. She highly doubted that it was take—obtained so easily. Folding one of her arms across her stomach, she brings the crystalline glass to her lips, savoring the way the dark liquid burns on its way down her throat. The simple blue dress she wears clings nicely along her body, the simple black heels raising her mere inches from her just average height.

Honestly, she really hadn't wanted today to happen. She much rather would be back at Dalton where she could keep an eye on things, but there was nothing she could do. (There is nothing she can ever really do.) Quinn lets out a long sigh. It's all such a headache. This whole mess.

Why, in the name of God, had Jesse decided to pick up the Lopez woman? The honey blonde rubs her temples, closing her eyes against the steadily increasing pound of her head. He read her file. He knew her family. So why did he think it was a good idea to throw her in the same room as the sweetest, most innocent woman he possibly could. Is he trying to put them all into an early grave?

Clenching her teeth, Quinn moves towards the large windows to the left of her. The thick, blood red curtains are drawn, blocking out what little light the sun had to provide during such a time. She hasn't seen it rain this bad since she was a child. (And she briefly wonders if this is what it's like to live under the sea.) She draws one of the curtains back with her hand, the grey light searing into her retina, causing her to wince against it.

This place. Why did he love to keep it so dark?

Maybe if he let a little sun in, he wouldn't always be in such a sour mood. She lets the drape swing back into place, shaking her head. No. That's a silly thought. He's _always_ in a sour mood. Doesn't matter. Especially now. She takes another sip of her drink.

The sound of a door opening breaks her concentration, hazel eyes drawing towards the far end of the room. He steps forth, his sharp jaw clean shaven, dark eyes swirling with something deeper than Satan himself. A shiver as her heart pounds with stifled dread. His hair is slicked, the fire casting a deep shadow along the lengths of his disarmingly attractive face (they are family, after all), his dark suit topped with a brilliantly red silken tie. His shoes shine as they click across the dark, wood floor.

When he's within five feet of her, he opens his arms, a smile stretching across his face. (She thinks his teeth glint.) "Cousin, Quinn." His voice is warm, but she knows that he's a master at playing the part.

But so is she.

Letting her own smile fall into place, the nurse closes the distance, pressing her body against his own, wrapping her arms around his torso (careful not to spill). They embrace for what feels like an eternity.

(She hears no heart beat.)

"Good evening, Simon, I hope that it finds you well?" She asks when they finally pull away. He turns away from her before answering, his sight turning towards the tumbler upon the table.

"It does, especially now that you're here." The sound of liquid tumbling into a glass fills the pause. "It's been so long since I've had a chance to see you, really you shouldn't make yourself a stranger." His tone is conversational, but warped around the edges. Unease causes her to shift her feet.

"I wouldn't be if you'd make the effort to come and visit," Quinn snaps sweetly, matching the darkness in her drink. She stares bitterly down at it, her anger briefly clouding the anxiety. The forceful slam of crystal on wooden finish (mahogany, she knows) causes her to jump.

"You must think me a horrible husband, Quinn," he replies, the indifference in his voice lifting like the smoke through the chimney. He shrugs before turning back towards her, his grey eyes storming. (His smile remains.) _Husband?_ She scoffs inwardly. _You're no more a husband to her than I am a horse._

But the honey blonde is smart enough to grit her teeth and avoid his bait. Clearing her throat, she moves to sit down in one of the armchairs positioned towards the fire. The heat presses against her skin and Quinn isn't sure if it's because of her proximity to the flames or because of her steadily growing annoyance. Simon takes the seat across from her, his glass held with white knuckles.

"You're annoyed with me!" Simon says, an amused smirk taking the place of his usual empty smile. Quinn peers down into her glass, pursing her lips. "You are!" His laughter, like the crack of lightning, chills to her very core.

"She watched the window for you _every day_ for an entire _year_ and you didn't show your face, not even once!" she snarls, her grip around the glass beginning to become painful. The amused smirk drops from his face, his dead eyes burning deep into her.

"I don't have time to be bothered with such petty matters. I'm a very busy man, and all I want is for my wife to come home so I can stop _fucking_ the maid," he coolly states, the callous in his words cutting.

"How many does that make now?" she snorts back, refusing to meet his eye.

"Twelve." Quinn tenses, the man bringing his drink to his lips, grey eyes pool over the rim still staring harshly at her. "The first one, she was truly sweet, so when she dropped my favorite crystal—the one your father gave me as a wedding gift—I had to dispose of her. Say, you're a woman; do you know any good way to get blood out of silk? I've been trying for years to find something, but I've a man's touch." Holding up his hands, he wiggles his fingers.

Quinn pales.

(She feels like she might burn.)

When she doesn't answer, he shakes his head, continuing with his recount. "The second had a nice face, but was a damned fool. The third was a screamer, so really, I couldn't be expected to help myself, dumb bitch brought it on herself. The fourth—"

"Stop," she demands, the word more forceful than it needed to be.

"Come, Quinny. Don't tell me you've lost your appetite already! I've just started!" Hoping that her stare is anywhere near as flaming as his, she holds him. When she doesn't look away, he relents, shrugging his shoulders as he leans back.

How could he do this to Brittany? That poor, sweet girl. But she knows what he would say should she ask. And either way, it didn't end in the happily-ever-after that she so desperately wanted to give the poor woman. _Even if it is with that horribly irritating Lopez woman_.

"I don't much find the appetites of men to be appealing."

"Sure you do. You like a stiff cock as much as the next harlot." Again he shrugs his shoulders, raising the glass to his lips and downing the rest of his drink. He stands for another. If she wasn't certain that it would get her killed, Quinn would have thrown her glass into the fire. Instead, wisely, she finishes her drink and places it next to her on the end table.

(When you have to play your cards so close to your chest, how do you even see what you have?)

"So," he starts, the sound of more liquid pouring making the nurse's heart rise to her throat. She grips the arms of the chair. "_Santi_ finally did what she was always destined to do, huh?"

Santi?

The familiar use of the nickname doesn't settle well with Quinn. She knew that there were dealings in the past with the Lopez family, and that things had eventually gone wrong when Atilio refused to stoop so low as to traffic people (_"It's barbaric to steal a mother from her child in the middle of the night!"_), but she didn't know Simon actually _knew_ the woman. Not being one who likes being caught uneducated, Quinn shifts uneasily.

"Always figured there was something wrong with her."

"Why?" She sits on the edge of her seat.

"She's a smart broad. Smarter than most of the men in the biz, almost like you, Quinn." He returns, sitting himself down onto one of her armrests. Simon stares down at her, his wolfish grin dancing with fire. "And I don't ever trust anyone who can outsmart me. Especially a woman." He places a burning hand upon her shoulder. Her skin begins to crawl. "You see—I told this to Santi once—the thing about women is they'll always disappoint you. They are devious creatures that lie in wait until a man is at his most vulnerable before they swoop in and _snatch_ what he's worked his entire life for." Simon leans forward, the lapel in his pocket nearly being flung to the hungry tongues of flame as he swings his arm wide over her.

"They always want for something, Quinn, and when they do, they stop at nothing. Women are their own specific breed of devil because you can't see the horns or forked tongues that the Bible talks. Their power lies elsewhere, boiled down to a base need that most men have no will to refute. They lie and cheat and take, but never give anything in return," he sighs, taking great care in smoothing the flat of his palm over his slightly disheveled hair.

A craze swirls within his iris.

"Anything that can look as beautiful as you and still grace a man's world, you can bet she's manipulated her way there." Fingers catch her jaw, forcing her head towards him. "I mean, look at your perfect mouth, Quinny." A rough thumb passes over her lips. Anxiety begins to rise, the feral, angry beast inside of her lashing against the cage of her ribs. Icicles burn beneath her skin. "I'll bet you make my twelve look like a right sore handful."

Holding her breath, she has to remind herself of where she is. Eyes rest upon the rearing white stallion just over her cousin's shoulder. The eyes of the eyeless bear down upon her, screaming the things that she cannot. "But Santi?" A dark chuckle, tick as poison and just as lethal. "She's a special sort of devil. One that is not governed even by the most High." Slowly, he parts her lips with his finger, gently rubbing his thumb over the underside of her lip.

"Instead of targeting the men themselves, she targets their wives. One might even think her a man trapped in a woman's body, the way she fucks those silly molls senseless. It's because of her that mockery of a _family_ has pulled so much weight. She is a master at what she does, Quinn. And now look at my poor, sweet, incredibly stupid _wife_." Violent fingers clamp down around her lip, pulling her face closer to his own.

Quinn yelps. "She's trying to do it to me, too. But I'd rather Brittany dead than relinquish the hold I have in this city. And if it's as you say it is, then I'll put the first bullet between Santi's eyes before turning it upon my stupid _cunt_ of a wife. Don't make me waste a third bullet on you, too."

(She can already hear the hammer.)

* * *

**September 30, 1941**

"Twice a week, Santana." Of course someone had to crawl up his ass and die there, because she was sitting in the middle of Jesse's office, his clipboard in hand and a smug smirk on his face.

"You mean I'm not making progress, doctor?" she scathes, rolling her eyes as she buries herself deeper into the safety of her own arms. Puck stands disinterestedly to her right, his eyebrows raised as he looks about the room. Honestly, she doesn't know _why_ Jesse allows them both in the same room as him, because, frankly, if she wanted to, she could probably kill the little shit where he stands.

And she wants to.

But blue eyes and ghosted kisses hold her back. The promising taste of vanilla lashes itself across her lips. Santana's pulse quickens.

"No," he drawls, his voice as flat as his eyes.

"That's too bad, I really thought your wife was enjoying my _experience_." The veins around his eyes begin to pop, the angry blue glaring up from beneath his quickly reddening skin. ("Why are veins blue, Santana? Isn't blood red?" The answer is easy, "So they can be noticed by you, Britt. They just want your attention, is all.") Puck snorts softly to himself.

"I don't think you understand the severity of your illness," Jesse warns, his voice low like an earthquake.

"Oh, I do. But I also understand that I'll never get out of here, even if I jump through all the hoops and fuck the ringleader." Santana shrugs. "So why bend myself over the table. At least if you do it, I can claim rape." A coy smile flits along her lips. The world could be crumbling around her and she wouldn't care. Not with the promise of more _Brittany_.

"Like a nigger bitch would win against a white man?" he hisses. "Don't make me laugh. If I wanted to, I could take you right here and right now and there would be no one to stop me."

"How's your lip?" she mentions nonchalantly. But she knows it strikes a chord.

"How's _Brittany_?" he shoots back.

(She remembers rubber and a happy little light.)

The smirk falls from her face, the muscle in her leg twitching involuntarily. A coolness radiates from her, the entire room feeling the effects. Goosebumps rise along Puck's arms, but for the most part, Santana feels like her heart has turned to a big, black brick. He has no right to even bring her into this. The whispers of anger lick against the back of her ear, light claws tickling down her neck. How does he even know about them? Is there even a _them_ to be known about? Santana would have to ask later.

A wicked grin lights Jesse's face, his shot in the dark paying off completely. "I'm merely trying to help you. If you continue to resist these therapy sessions, like you have been wont to do, I'd be happy to put you back on the table."

"I find it impossible to talk to the shit stain who is responsible for my being here in the first place. And if you so much as _touch_ me like that again, I will make sure that once I'm out of here that I will find you and extract each and every one of your nails painfully and slowly." The flush on his face pales considerably, Jesse fully aware to never disregard a threat made by Santana Lopez. Biting down upon the inside of his mouth, his gaze grows stony. "I hear the Chinese have a new preferred method," she sighs, slowly bringing her own fingernails up for intense scrutiny. "Involves bamboo."

Swimming in the same ocean as Santana Lopez is dangerous enough. But swimming in the same swimming pool? That's not something Jesse St. James ever wishes to do. Ever. Clearing his throat, he scrawls across the paper wildly, and Santana wonders if he's even actually writing anything or if he's just trying to look busy. The discomfort stretched between his eyes, much to her own faceless guilt, sends a warm spark through her system.

So she still has it.

(She remembers static shocks and a happy buzzing light, the memory branded with a hot poker into the very retinas of her eye. They sizzle and snap, and she wonders if she'll cry, hoping that the tell tale steam isn't smoked within her chocolate iris.)

A knock at the door has her head turning, Puck jumping from his position just to the left. Santana notes how wrinkled his orderly whites are, the cuffs around his pants stained a light brown, splotches of mud crawling up the calves. Shaking her head in distaste, Santana gives the young man a roll of her eyes.

"Ah," Jesse starts, relief uncoiling within that single exclamation. "Come in." Already back to being buried within his endless scribbles, the door opens and in steps a young man.

It takes all of Santana's willpower to not burst out laughing. Certainly with slicked blonde hair and brilliant eyes, she can see the way his muscles ripple beneath his long white jacket. But. But—and here's the best part—his _lips_. They stretch all across his face, pulled into a ridiculously large smile (which she assumes is supposed to be endearing) and Santana worries that they just might continue stretching around his whole head until all that is left is a giant, gaping, monstrosity of a mouth.

The laughter, suppressed within her throat, shakes her shoulders, her teeth clamping down hard upon her bottom lip. He quickly moves into the room, quietly closing the door behind himself, his own clipboard clutched under his arm. The embroidery upon his jacket labels him as Dr. S. Evans.

"Well, how did you manage that?" she asks before he has a chance to say anything. Jesse abruptly looks up, watching the way her features turn dark, the maliciousness seeming to stain the very white blouse wrapped around her body a swirling black.

Feeling her eyes upon him, the young man turns to her, his eyebrows pulled into confusion, though his lips still turned into a dopey smile. "Excuse me?"

"Did you swallow up the entirety of your class, or just suck off your professors one by one until they begged you to stop?" Obviously, Jesse hasn't mentioned anything about her to the young Dr. S. Evans, based off the way his face flushes the deepest scarlet she's ever seen. "I mean, I'd be rather scared too, who knows where that thing leads."

"Santana!" Jesse snaps. Lazily, she turns to face him, her mouth drawn into a thin line. Quirking an eyebrow she waits for him to say anything, but his face is about as red as his companion's. (Is it rage or…?) She cools her gaze, rivaling the very nature of the arctic North.

For the longest moment, a strange expression sits upon the large-lipped doctor's face, his eyes roving over her, but not in that needy, hungry way. As if he's assessing her. The smile from his face drops as he decides something. And she's sure it isn't something that he likes. Crossing her arms once again, she waits patiently. (_This? This is Santana? This is Brittany's Star Man?_)

"Are you quite done with your schoolyard temper tantrums, because if not, I can always call Sue," the slimy man suggests, his pen gripped harshly between his fingers. The muscles along the right side of her back twitch in a chaotic wave. Bile shoots up her esophagus, burning against the back of her throat.

Her stomach seems endless.

(Flip-flop, from angry to terrified. How is that a way to live? From _I'll kill you_ to horror.)

(There is no longer control.)

When he's quite certain that she isn't going to start taunting the doctor again, Jesse clears his throat and motions towards fish-lips (she'll have to work on it). "This is Dr. Evans. You'll be seeing him twice a week, after your ECT, and ET." She nods her head as if she understands what either of those things are. So they're going to put her in a room alone with the large-lipped hero? "I think that the conversations with Dr. Evans will be far less—" _poisonous, hateful, spiteful _"—aggressive. I'll still be your primary doctor," she reads the flicker of flame in the back of his iris, a wicked grin quickly curling around his words. "but, I think what he has to offer very well might start to break through all that stubborn will Atilio didn't manage carefully enough." Jesse's words are low and scathing, causing Santana to grind her teeth.

Still perturbed and embarrassed, the young man nods his head, moving to her side. He extends his hand, as if he wants her to shake it, something that she has never seen a man do towards a woman. She stares at his palm like it might catch on fire. Or it might catch her on fire.

(When a star explodes, does it kill the others around it?)

She cuts her gaze to the left, the harsh blue of a late September sky pulling forward eyes and crushed violet. Patients walk along the grounds, their dotted bodies nothing more than ants to the gaze of the giant blue. They're nothing. She's nothing. And she can feel the chasm in her stomach dropping lower. (How low will it drop before inertia pulls against it? How long until gravity rips it from her?)

A sigh presses against the folds of fat Dr. Evans calls lips, his eyebrows wrinkled. He moves in the corner of her eye, casting a long glance towards Jesse, who merely just shrugs. _She's not my problem. She's yours._

But Santana belongs to no one. At least. Not here. Mouth buzzing once again, vanilla surrounding her, she looks back to Dr. Evans and stands. Her eyes are still cool. But they are less invasive and on edge than they had been when he had entered. Noticing this, that _stupid_ smile winds up again and he motions towards the door.

"Why don't we get to know each other a little better, Santana?" The doctor's hand rests in the small of her back.

(She doesn't know it, but Jesse thinks about a certain blonde, with brilliant eyes as well. And he wonders just how far he would have to go to completely break Santana.)

Being accustomed to the dark alley vibe and cool steel of a loaded barrel, she is used to being ushered by at least two or three men. Up until recently, when she had just employed the services of Puck, it wasn't uncommon for her to have at least five of the gun toting idiots around at all times.

However.

With Sam, his hand guiding her down the hallway, and Puck walking so close to her side, she feels like she is being watched. Like she is cattle being brought to slaughter. And yes, Dalton is its own personal sort of slaughter house (the one where they bring the hopeless and downtrodden and mash every waking hope and dream into a grotesque nightmare, only made better by painted faces and drooping walls), but she can already feel the hooks plunging between the raw tendons running from her ankles to calves.

She wants to snap at Dr. Evans. But the woman with eyes milky and white sitting in the wheelchair just down the hall stills her voice. Frayed, brown locks cascade down her back, strands taking it upon themselves to jut at every angle. It gives her a wild look. A haunting look as she turns her gaze towards Santana. She doesn't smile. She doesn't speak. She merely watches.

As if her eyes are the eyes of God himself.

_I know what you do._

_You reek of it._

_And she will burn with you._

Ice explodes from the epicenter of her chest, fracturing against the inside of her hollowed body. They pass by unceremoniously, but the woman still watches. (And her eyes are sad. Sadder than Santana has ever seen before.)

(_"Have you ever seen that light?"_)

(_"Which light?"_)

(_"The one in a man's eyes before you pull the trigger."_)

A phantom gun barrel presses against the back of her head, the silent click of a hammer being pulled back. She holds her breath, tearing her eyes away, a thin sheen of sweat beginning to bead along her skin. Santana realizes that it's the place. She's not crazy. She's not. It's the place.

Abruptly, they stop at another door. Did she walk up stairs? She can't recall. But regardless, Dr. Evans stands before it, fumbling with the keys pulled from his pocket. Puck doesn't bother to even try and assist the man by offering to hold his clipboard, but instead disinterestedly picks at something lodged deep within his ear.

(This is why they never worked "nicely" together. What a disgusting, albeit useful, little creature.)

Through the threshold of Dr. Evans' door, once it finally swings open, Santana peers into universe eyes. A childish glint. That mischievous smile. A ghosted kiss. And a touch against the back of her neck. As if swept away by a passing thought, her breath forces herself from her chest.

She knows that Brittany would love this office, with stars written across the ceiling. With a telescope in the corner, pointing up into an oblivion Santana can't even fathom. Everything is Brittany. And she hates the doctor for it. Jealousy, though unfounded, pumps her muscles as she walks to stand by the couch he motions towards.

"So," the doctor yawns, flopping down upon the large couch pushed up against the window. He leans back, his eyes closing. As if he's expelling the stress straight from him. Tentatively, Santana takes a seat as well, careful not to touch him, lest he spread his disarming lip disease to her. "What do you like, Santana?"

She casts him a wary glance, her ankles throbbing with an imaginary pain. (She can feel the knife slip along the tender flesh of her stomach.) Her muscles tighten. Deciding upon defensive, she crosses her arms, giving him the hardest stare she can muster. "You've read what I like, so don't bother wasting my time with stupid questions."

"Sure, I've read what other people have to say about you, but I want to get to know you through you. Not by what Dr. St. James says." The biting laughter coming from Puck makes her jump.

"Might be safer fer ya if ya jus' stick to them notes. Santana might very well be the biggest little cunt in all of North America."

"Yes, Puck, please. Showcase your lovely lack of intelligence," she bites. He hasn't really done anything wrong, but Puck is just an easy target. But she needs someone to be with her. To feel the bite, the edge and the anger peppering the corners of her soul. Confused by her statement, his eyebrows screw up. The scowl matching her own lets Santana know that they'll be okay. That she'll be okay. Because at least Puck is here. He rolls his eyes at her. (Sometimes, he thinks that he's spent entirely too much time with her.)

"So…" Dr. Evans starts, leaning forward so his forearms rest upon his knees, his fingers tapping together lightly. He looks awkward. And unsure. And Santana wants to eat him for breakfast. To sink a fork straight into that rippling bicep and pull away a thick strip of meat. But they don't have forks here. Hm. She could work with a spoon. Puck sends her a warning look. _If you ever wanna get outta here…_ "What do you like?" he asks again.

_Brittany_.

Blue eyes and sunset kissed skin, painted by the silver of a full moon against the black canvas of the night sky. Because Santana is certain that the stars have been locked away within those endless eyes. Only for her to see. She thinks of soft kisses pressed against her lips and Brittany's stifled gasp swallowed down her throat. The coil of desire tightens anew.

But she can't say that. She can't help but think it, though, her skin beginning to flush beneath her caramel color. Suspecting that the doctor is too much of a simpleton to notice, Santana doesn't really much care. Her fingers twitch with the beginnings of a wanted release.

"Bourbon." Whereas it isn't a lie, the answer comes quickly and without thought.

"Oh? What type? My father never really much cared for such heavy drinks, but from time to time he liked to tap over to Marlene's and have a pint of beer." The recount is completely unnecessary, but Santana suffers through it patiently. There's a twinkle in the corner of Dr. Evans' eye that reminds her of a six year old. She's certain that whatever answer she settles on will be good enough for him.

_Close enough for jazz_.

"The type in the bottle, Dr. Liptenstein. I don't care where it comes from as long as it burns on the way down and puts the holes in my memory," she grumps, her scowl growing deeper. She allows herself a little pat on the back with the name. Puck nods his head in approval, but he doesn't say anything on the matter.

The flush brightens along Dr. Evans' face, almost making him glow. Santana is certain should they close the blinds and shut off the lights, he would illuminate better than any light bulb. Considering his lips are so huge. Okay, so that one didn't make sense, but it made her feel better.

"What else?" he pries. Tapping his fingers together, Dr. Evans doesn't look at her. For a second, Santana thinks that he can't be too much older than herself. That he probably has only been doing this for a short while and hasn't really had to deal with the un-help-able. Because that's what she is. (With universe eyes and vanilla sweet lips, how does the dark let go of the sun?)

"I like fucking women, trouty mouth, just as much as you like sucking the lids off of jars. What I can't understand is how your lips attach to your face, because whenever you speak, I feel like I'm about ready to get bowled over by two flapping sacs of lard." Trouty mouth. That was good. Perhaps threatening the doctors wasn't the smartest thing she could possibly do, but Santana was tired of playing nice. None of them actually cared about them in here. None of them actually wanted anyone to get out.

Maybe the women didn't want to get out either, though. The world outside is harsh. Where people die of starvation and neighbors douse each other in gasoline before lighting a match to ruin everything that they are. Friends shoot each other. Lovers lie and cheat and play mind games. Men dangle by broken bones up the town hall's flag pole, pants pulled down and body devoid of skin.

Where women beg and stare in rapture before they realize that they've missed something.

So yeah. She's harsh. But only because they made her that way.

"I wasn't asking for the details, Santana," he simply replies back, shrugging his shoulders in the process. It annoys her that he isn't taking the bait. That he isn't getting mad. He just sits there, his enormous lips half hidden by the bridge of his hands, his eyes peering at her inquisitively. There's no pens. There's no paper. There's only Santana. Puck. And _him_.

"You weren't but it's boiling down to what you know. And what I know, Dr. S. Evans, is that I like the way they squirm underneath me while I take them." Her voice grows gravely, the smoke thick between each syllable. (She thinks of Brittany, golden hair splayed across an old pillow, soft whimpers pressed to the underside of her jaw.) "I love when stomachs tense under the heat of my hand, knuckles buried deep." (The blonde squirms, a voiced name caught between _somewhere_ and _nowhere_, pupils dilated so wide, they're black.)

She wants to continue, but finds her voice lost somewhere in her daydreams, a light shiver caressing down her spine. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Santana takes a deep breath, the muscles in her jaw leaping. Puck openly stares at her, but she doesn't pay him any mind. Dr. Evans either. Though, the way he twirls his thumbs round and round, his eyes staring at the monotonous movement would be sure to make her laugh.

Santana is done. She wants out of this session. Out of this room. And _needs_ to find Brittany.

A clock ticks against the wall. And it counts the seconds of silence until Dr. S. Evans stands and leaves without a backwards glance.

* * *

It's arts and crafts time and Santana is sitting next to her. Touching her leg, Brittany has locked her ankle around Santana's, the whisper of a smile pooling along dark red lips. Brittany would kiss her here, too, if it were allowed. But she knows better. It'll have to wait. They only get to have arts and crafts twice a month, since they really do try to keep everything on a rotating schedule. That's not to say that they aren't allowed to use the supplies, it's just now? Everyone has to participate in some way shape or form.

They still don't trust her with the pencils, since the last incident (the bandage is still stark white in contrast), but she doesn't mind. Paint never hurt anyone. At least, she doesn't think it has.

The soft bristles of her brush make Quinn feel more at ease, the nurse standing dutifully behind her, hazel eyes looking glassy, yet sharp, especially when they cut towards the dark haired Latina. Every time that happens, Brittany sends a pouting glare over her shoulder, hoping the honey blonde gets the message. (She doesn't.)

The arts room always smells like pastel. The colors. Like white-washed blues and faded greens, the strong scent clinging to the white brick of the room. Also: needles. Most people look at her like she's crazy when she mentions the smell of the little sharp points, and even more so when she tries to explain it. They smell hot. Metallic. But burnt. Like a forest fire in the middle of a steel yard.

But they aren't allowed needles.

At least, she isn't.

The room is up the North stairs (right out of the main lobby) and to the East wing. It's a large room with exposed, old piping lining the ceiling, the cracking paint peeling along rusted iron. The constant sound of whooshing water is present, but only if you listen real hard. And sometimes, Brittany thinks that just might be the blood in her ear. But the ear is so small. Her eyebrows crinkle tightly. Is there any blood in there to begin with?

Split into sections, her and Santana sit at the very back, their long, black table positioned with the windows behind them. The chill of outside radiates off of the panes, sending shivers up her spine. Although, she isn't so sure it's the cold or the way Santana keeps dragging the back of her foot up her shin. A flush begins at the tip of her ears and steadily grows with her increasing heart rate.

In the front, Terri—still speaking loudly about her encounter with Santana, though she does seem to be more cautious about Brittany—sits with all of her little friends, glue guns (under the watchful eye of three orderlies) sitting upon little pieces of tin, waiting for them to assemble something that probably looks like a flower. To the left, is what Brittany calls the cage. It's where all of the knitting needles are kept. Only the most normal girls can go in there. The ones that the doctors deem fit. The ones close enough to being released.

She's never seen anyone in there.

Between them and Terri, everyone else mingles with various crafts, all under the bored gaze of the doctor who stands at the very front, his perfect hair being swept to the side every five minutes (she's counted) with a delicate flick of his wrist. To be honest, she doesn't actually know if he's a doctor. He doesn't know anything about anyone, really, and he's terrible at crafts. But he's nice enough and likes her drawings, so whenever he's around, she always looks forward to their visits.

She thinks his name is Kurt, or something like that. He told her once that he wants to make clothes. But that's a woman's job. To be fair, if a man wants to do a woman's job, Brittany thinks that he should be able to. She doesn't really understand why he can't. The thought troubles her long enough to forget Santana's wandering foot for just a second before she feels a gentle pressure upon the top of her thigh.

That grounds her back, the flush upon her face exploring new regions she never thought existed. (Such as the underside of her arms or the palms of her hands.) Tearing her gaze away from the young man, she glances at Santana. She's met with a tender smile, chocolate eyes turning to that molten, candied color that has her falling to pieces.

"Candy for your thoughts?" Brittany breathes, returning the smile with a bright one of her own. She doesn't realize the haze that has taken over her voice. Or the way her blue eyes have gone darker.

Santana turns her a puzzled look, her smile growing larger. Laughter fills her throat and Brittany doesn't think she's ever heard anything so pure. Or wonderful. Another wave of shivers as the laughter seeps into her creamy flesh, like aloe for a deep burn. The weight set upon her chest lightens.

"I think you mean penny." Brittany squints as she turns back to the array of paint set before her. Carefully, she dips the tip of her brush into the violet pool. (—of crushed ribs and bleeding color—)

"You have a penny?" A thick stroke across the page bleeds within the reedy white.

"No—that's the saying. 'Penny for your thoughts.'" Brittany presses her lips together firmly before turning back towards dark eyes and cinnamon lips.

"But, that's silly. Pennies don't make people happy. Why would anyone want a penny if they could, instead, have candy?" She can see the gears working as Santana's face falls, scrounging around trying to come up with an answer.

"Because you can buy things with a penny?" she finally decides.

"Like candy."

"I suppose so…" though, she doesn't sound convinced, Santana turns back to her own paper, the white glaring up at her annoyingly. A light grimace drifts across her face, the blonde suddenly feeling the urge to smooth her thumb along the creases. (Santana feels like she's being treated like a six-year-old with this whole "crafts" nonsense. Especially since she doesn't have a creative bone in her body.)

"So if it's just 'Candy for your thoughts,' you remove one step that you would have had to go through to get to the candy anyway. Besides, it's a lot more colorful and whole lot more fun than just a shiny piece of copper." Brittany drags the brush along the paper again, dark blotches forming nonexistent shapes already in her mind. It doesn't have to make sense to anyone else. As long as it makes sense to her. That's what Kurt had told her the first time she had met him.

"If only candy made the world go round, Britt, and not money," the sad lilt to her sigh doesn't go unnoticed, but Brittany decides not to say anything about it. She lets a couple more minutes go by, her wrist guiding the brush in sweeping arcs from the right corner of the page to the bottom. After the fifth one, she dabs the brush in the still clear water in her cleaning cup and looks for another color.

"I guess," Brittany starts, the tip of her brush gently dabbing within dark blue. (—bruises creeping up fractured arms, the breaking waves of a dock—) "If you had a lot of thoughts, you could save up all your pennies and buy something nice." The curve of a jaw, the start of a face, she stares into the violet streaks. She can feel the look Santana is giving her. The intensity flickering behind harsh words written across a brown iris. There's confusion but something darker. It burns into the side of her face. But Brittany doesn't look up. A foot rubs against her shin, her heart stuttering. (Though she is the possessor, the blonde finds herself the possessed, with ankles working hard against her.)

"What would you get?" Santana barely whispers, as if it's a secret. Something all for them. Brittany forgets about Quinn and holds onto the whispered words, praying for silent meanings.

"I don't know," Brittany says slowly.

"I'm sure there must be _something_ you want." Brittany shifts under the intense scrutiny. Nervously, she chances a look towards her dark captor. And she finds herself unable to look away again. Caged within those beautiful eyes and all that is _Santana, Santana, Santana._

"I don't have many thoughts to give pennies to," she replies with a shrug. "A lot of people think I'm slow—"

"They aren't worth your time, Britt, they wouldn't know the mouthpiece of a trumpet from the asshole of a dog," Santana snarks as if the very idea of someone saying that about the blonde offends her. (Which it does.) Being defended, even against shapeless things such as concepts, Brittany feels a pull at her heart. (The noose continues to tighten.)

Finally tearing her gaze away, she looks back at her paper, a few loose blotches of paint eating away at the white. Frowning in dismay, she immediately tries to rectify the situation before her. "I can have anything I want?" The sly tone silks along her tongue, blue eyes daring to dart towards Santana once more. The filtered light from behind them clashes with the artificial bulbs, haloing the dark woman in an effervescent haze, drawing the breath straight from Brittany's chest.

Straight from her blood.

"Anything you want," Santana nods in affirmation. There, within the dimple at her cheek, lies all of the broken promises and unspoken dreams. A graveyard of smiles, lost to the restless tides of time. Where the ocean has rounded the edges and dulled the words. But it still beats to her. In truth, honesty and openness. Brittany's fingers ache to press into it. To feel it. And she almost does. But.

But.

_You_.

She knows the answer but swallows it. Because Simon still waits on the other end of a long wire. Speaking softly into a receiver. Words tumble from his lips, a threat unveiled and straight forward. His rough hands dip deeper into the chasm in her chest, robbing her of the beat singing with her life.

"A yellow brick road," Brittany answers. For no other reason than just because, really. Because at least then, it could lead her to a field of poppies. To a Wizard who might be able to sort out these problems. Or maybe, it would lead her to the answer of how to solve them herself. Because Simon isn't something that is just going away. (She briefly wonders if throwing a bucket of water on him would melt him, too.)

Dark eyes narrow, as if trying to puzzle out her answer, but finally, Santana shrugs and lets a small smile (only for her) twitch against the corner of her mouth. Nodding her head, she turns back to her piece of paper, a thick veil of black hair covering the side of her face. Hiding her from view. It curls at the ends, bouncing lightly with her slight movements, but Brittany doesn't think she should ever be hidden.

(How does the darkness hide?)

(In the halo of the sun.)

Hesitantly, the blonde sets her paintbrush down with a light clack, and wipes her palm against her shirt. (There's no paint there, but better safe than sorry.) Digits trembling, Brittany swipes the veil back and over Santana's shoulder, fingertips gently grazing the tip of a caramel ear. She can feel the shudder pass through Santana's body.

_You shouldn't have done that_.

As if a shock to her system, Brittany snaps her hand back, casting a quick glance over towards Quinn, who watches with that same stony expression she's been sporting all day. When she doesn't make to say anything, Brittany wonders if she's watching at all. Or if she's sleeping. (Can Quinn sleep with her eyes open?)

Heat blisters all along her face in her haste to pick her paintbrush up again. The low rumble of the room is reduced to a faint buzz, her ears ringing with the hammering of her heart. (Can Santana hear it as well?) Mouth dry, she goes back to her painting, though hyper aware of the stilled foot still wrapped around her ankle and the searching way dark eyes rove over her every feature.

"What would you buy?" the blonde finally asks. Santana finally turns back to her own paper, holding the paintbrush uncomfortably in her hand. Hesitantly, she dabs at the red (bright, and not unlike the red that colors the inside of veins). Grimly, as if it's a daunting task, she stares at the page again, the color dripping with light _tap, tap, tap_ against the corner. It streaks like blood.

Brittany's stomach twists.

Taking a quick glance over her shoulder, she notes Quinn's hazel eyes watching each drip. As if they drop with the weight of a bomb. She thinks that her face pales, but doesn't have time to ask after it before Santana is speaking.

"A way out." For some reason, Brittany feels her heart sink at the answer, her brush drawing across the page again. She dabs the arch of an eye, bleeding through with violet and bruise blue. _It's for the best_, she thinks, her grip upon the brush growing tighter. (_Don't snap it._)

"Oh," she forces, trying to keep the disappointment out of her eyes.

"It's a load of horse shit," Santana snarls, the dripping of her brush threatening to run through the entire page. Brittany thinks of mentioning it, but upon looking over to say something, the suggestion is lost. Chocolate eyes, smoldering with the blackest coals she has ever seen, burn straight through her, as if searching for answers she doesn't know how to give. "He can throw women away so _easily_—" angry streak spattered diagonally across the page "—and get away with murder—" the flick of a caramel wrist, violent strings landing "—and marry and pretend that he loves her—" a slash, like the brush is a weapon "—when he locks her up and _kills_ her slowly."

There are frustrated tears in the corner of chocolate eyes, but otherwise Santana's face is smooth with calm. Brittany stares down at the streaked patterns upon the page. (_"It's just like art, you know. The way it blooms out of arteries, it's my masterpiece."_) She tries to come up with something to say, but everything seems unimportant. Like her words couldn't touch the situation at hand. Even if she wanted to.

"You deserve to be out there, not locked up in here where everyone calls you crazy." Careful to avoid bright blue eyes, Santana plunges her paintbrush into the rinsing water, the plume of red staining the water a light pink. It swirls within the confines of the glass.

"I don't mind. I like it here," Brittany lies. If it keeps her away from Simon. Her airways start to close, the edges of her vision blurring into a dark room with green chimes, a burn at her hip.

"_I _don't like you here." Out of context, Brittany would have felt a stab of hurt. In fact, she still feels a stab of hurt as she tries to untangle their ankles, but fumbles when she feels pressure upon her thigh again.

"I c-can leave you alone, if you want me to," she meekly manages. Her voice cracks, hands trembling.

"No!" Santana blurts, the force behind her exclamation only intensified by the way her hand squeezes along Brittany's leg. But didn't she just say…? Thoroughly confused, the blonde gives the dark haired Latina a look, hoping that it says _Please explain_. Although, Quinn has told her before that sometimes, her looks just make her think she's about ready to birth a child. She severely hopes it's not the latter.

"If I had a penny for my thoughts, and I saved them up," Santana starts carefully, as if she's trying to tiptoe through a minefield. "I would buy you a way out." But that still didn't make any sense. Opening her mouth to say as much, confusion clearly still written all over her face, it's Quinn who cuts her off.

"What she's saying, Brittany, is that she would send you away from Simon and all of these stupid people keeping you here. Though, here's a lesson learned in experience, you never can get far enough away from Simon, Santana. He eventually always finds you," Quinn snaps, the venom striking the blonde straight to the bone. "I'd be careful of what you say." Hazel eyes clash with dark ones, an unreadable expression plastered upon both of their faces.

Send her away from Simon?

_Life is a jigsaw, sweet girl._

_If you lose one piece, it'll never be complete._

"But what about you?" Brittany blanches, an insistence welling up from some unknown reservoir of fire buried at the bottom of a deep, dark chasm. It shoots through her like a beacon. And she's worried, like a flare, that it too will be quick to die.

Santana doesn't answer, just shrugs her shoulders, her dark eyes tearing away from Quinn's before she looks back down at her paper. When she does speak, Brittany knows she speaks to the nurse and not to herself. (Because Santana isn't ready to answer that question. She's not sure if she ever will be.)

"He can't find her if he's dead." It's simple. It's brutal. It's honest.

And most of all, Brittany knows she means it.

She's never worried more.

* * *

**Author's Note: Okay. So it's late. But like…I mean, I had it done on Friday, it's just this weekend has been really busy. The sad part is: I didn't even GET to play GTA this week. I've played a total of forty five minutes of the game. Since I've gotten it. Which was day one. And. LIFE, you guys. LIFE. D:**

**I've also come to realize, that I VERY well may run out of lyrics before this story comes to completion, but we'll see what happens. Which kinda sucks, but everything just keeps taking longer and longer. Like, this is only half of what I was supposed to cover in this chapter. ._.**

**ALSO. I'm developing carpal tunnel in my left wrist. Which is cool and all. But that means that I might need to take this next week off of writing so that way I don't completely fuck myself over. But we'll see. I don't know. I get bored pretty easily, and reddit can only hold my attention for so long.**

**Thanks for everyone who read and reviewed last chapter. They really make my day. Also, don't stay silent! I write for you guys and I love to hear what you have to say. ALSO ALSO: Anons! D: I'm sorry I scared you all away last chapter. ;-; So many tears when I heard from none of you guys. And I know the last chapter was a little hard to get through, but like. Sigh. Again, thanks for those of you who did review! I promise I read each and every word as soon as I get the notification. (Because working, is that a thing?) Haha.**

**As always, a special shout out to my beta Swinging Cloud, because without her, I'd be a hot mess. (She is the unsung hero.)**

**Anyway, I'll see you guys tentatively next week, barring my wrist.**

**/heart**


	9. Atlas

**Chapter 9: Atlas**

_Scent of magnolias_

**October 1, 1941**

"What time is it?" Her breath tickles lightly against the side of Santana's neck, the whisper hot. The dull, white room is bathed in the silver light, cascading to the ground like a waterfall without a stream.

"I don't have a watch," Santana grunts, exhaustion loosening her tongue. Her body screams, Brittany's head resting gently against her shoulder, her back propped against the cool bricks of the wall. The chill does nothing to stem the flooding heat.

"Can't you tell by looking at the moon?" Soft circles draw along the flesh of caramel skin, Brittany's voice low. Soft lips caress the swoop in her neck, her heart accelerating at the touch.

"What? No, who told you that?" They sit on Brittany's bed, Santana's fingers clasped lazily within the blonde's. It's not so much that she minds the contact (in fact, she revels in it), but rather, Santana hasn't been sleeping. Not since that kiss. They haven't shared any others, but the promise is always there. Always prickling in the back of her mind. (If Santana Lopez was any braver, she might even ask for another.)

"I just thought that because you could tell time by the stars, you could by the moon, too." Soft baby blues gravitate towards the window, the beading scar within the condensation slowly fading. Fingers twitch against Santana's, and she already misses the warmth the blonde leaves behind. Even if she has yet to retreat from her side.

"But the stars don't move. What would be the point of having a North Star, then?" A stray bead of water snakes its way down the pane, dancing with the shadow of a branch, the tree dappling the field of vision in twisting pathways of darkened skeletons.

"It must get tiring always being relied upon for direction. I mean, you'd get blamed for getting people lost. I'd think the guilt would be crushing." Long fingers retreat, Santana resisting the urge to chase after them. If Brittany knew how much the dark haired Latina needed her, Santana is certain she would run. (And the prospect of no Brittany scares her more than anything ever could.)

"I don't think the North Star minds," Santana says with a non-committal shrug.

"No, I think he does." Creamy (perfect) limbs disentangle themselves from caramel, Brittany lifting herself to her feet. A tight twist tugs at Santana's stomach, dark eyes drifting like smoke across the sunshine hair and Elysium expanse that is _Brittany_. "He's just polite enough to not say anything." Brilliance in the way she smiles. Santana's breath is robbed straight from her throat, the soft contours of Brittany's face lighting all for her. (And no one else.)

Bare feet pad lightly across the slick tiles of the floor, long muscles taut with the strain of balance. She stands upon her tiptoes (like she has done a thousand times) and gently drags her finger down the pane, rewriting the scar. Santana doesn't know why she feels the need to do it. She's thought to ask, but has always been too afraid of the answer.

_It's just a line. How much can it hold anyway?_

(Everything.)

Santana pulls at the corner of the blanket, smiling softly. Brittany has yet to call her out on the switch. So, either she got away with it. Or the blonde didn't care. (The truth is…) She removes a long dark hair clinging to the rough threads, grimacing as it threatens to stick to her fingers. "Polaris has a lot more support than people give him credit." Perhaps it's her lack of sleep, but Santana finds herself being drawn into the conversation with a lot more intrigue than she ought to show. (_"A woman should never be smarter than a man."_)

(And it's always because of Brittany.)

"But he holds the entire weight of the sky." Longing universe eyes drink in the spattered starscape. (And Santana wonders if the heavens are ordered after the endless blues staring up at them in such a perfect display of wonder. They must be.) A barbed tip pierces Santana's heart when Brittany flicks her gaze towards her own, beckoning her with a simple curl of her index finger.

"It's a burden he's willing to bear, as foolish as it may be," she replies easily, her feet hitting the tiles. A shiver jolts up her spine, calves clenching temporarily. (She remembers ice and water, the way a lattice worked within the insides of her veins.) The sadness folding along blue eyed valleys doesn't go unnoticed by Santana. And for a second, she hates the sky and the endless darkness that feeds those insecurities into the blonde.

She crosses the distance quickly.

"Why do you think it's foolish?" Brittany slides her fingers around Santana's wrist, pulling her close, the unease that had been building between her shoulder blades quickly dispersing.

"No one can bear the weight of the sky by themselves. It's impossible, so why even try." Honestly, Santana doesn't even know what she's saying, but anger marks her words, the lashes deep and bloody. They are still talking about the North Star, right?

"Nothing is impossible, Santana." A hurt so deep it scars, licks against Brittany's sentence. Creamy fingers work a chaotic pattern along Santana's forearm. It's maddening and calming all at the same time, the strong scent of vanilla lulling her eyes closed. If only she could just sleep.

"Plenty of things are impossible," Santana snaps. She doesn't mean to. But Brittany stops her ministrations and jerks back a little, sad eyes dropping like mortars. Santana fumbles to recover. Again. Because it will always be her stuttering after something insensitive. It will always be her, with soft chocolate eyes, trying to drink in the sunshine and warmth pouring from blues. "I mean, I won't ever be able to grow wings or shoot fire from my hands. It's not physically possible."

"But you can in your dreams," Brittany counters, a pout working its way onto her face. "That counts as much as anything in real life."

"If you're the only one experiencing it, how is that _real_?" Frustration builds, hot and desperate for escape.

"How isn't it?" The existentialism is lost on the dark haired Latina.

"Because when I wake up in the morning I won't be any closer to having wings than the slop being served at breakfast," Santana fumes, her words coming hot and fast. A part of her screams and begs for her to stop. She crumbles around the edges, watching as Brittany pulls back further, the unreadable masking her beautiful smile.

Are they fighting?

"You know how some doors have those annoying little tracks on the floor around the threshold?" Grim faced and miserable, Santana nods her head, gently wrapping a hand around her waist so she doesn't meekly attempt to draw the blonde in towards her again. Silver light pours in through the clouded window. "Sometimes, when I'm not looking—Quinn says it's the tactless child in me—my big toe will catch on that little tiny edge and I'll bleed for what feels like forever and it hurts so much that I cry."

Santana screws her eyebrows up, her weight shifting from hip to hip. The thought of Brittany bleeding doesn't settle well within the pit of her stomach. "How does this—" The blonde holds up a hand, firmly pressing her fingertips to Santana's lips.

"I cry and cry because it hurts so much. Quinn will look at me, stop the bleeding and get that sad look in her eye, but she can't know how I feel. Not exactly. Sure, she's stubbed her toe thousands of times, but that doesn't mean she can crawl into my brainspace and experience exactly what I am. But it's real, right?" Oh. So this is where this is going.

"Of course that's real." Santana's voice, war-weary and exhausted, drops in defeat. "But that is something that will stay with you, Britt. The scar on your toe will be there when you go to bed and will be there when you wake up again. It won't just disappear."

"But the pain will be gone." Brittany's brows furrow further, an unsatisfied frown tugging at her mouth, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"Because that's what happens, pain fades." Chaos threatens to tear Santana to shreds, a deep surf crashing within blue eyes. Brittany retreats further away and the dark haired Latina can already feel her slipping away.

"Some doesn't."

Unspoken words—writ along creamy flesh—bleed up through white bandages.

They both stand perfectly still, Santana's head clouded and muddled. Wind presses against a frosted window pane, melted mouths and painted faces reeking of rot and hate. The atmosphere whirls around them, pressing into eardrums with thick fingers. Shadows, long and spindly, press against the white-washed wall, peeling paint curling like worms against the old brick.

_Simon_, they spell. And the Furies roil in the shadows of Santana's shoulders.

"What happened, Brittany? What did he do?" Things she's wanted to ask since she got here. Santana, breath stilled in her chest, strains to hear the answer, the silence deafening. Moonlight creeps further into the room.

"Nothing, I'm just sick." Brittany retreats into the comfort of her own arms, her eyes dropping the gaze Santana so feverishly held.

"You _aren't_," she hisses. This time, she doesn't stop herself when she reaches her hand out to grab Brittany's right hand. She pulls as she simultaneously steps forward, securing her other hand around the blonde's waist. But Brittany squirms. "Don't _defend_ him."

"He is my husband," she replies with a twitched shrug. As if it didn't matter. (Santana can feel her heart breaking.) Chocolate eyes blacken.

"Please tell me." If she doesn't, Santana thinks she might die. Entreatingly, she presses herself closer, the blonde still stiff within her grasp. Hope flutters weakly in her chest as the blonde tosses her eyes from side to side, as if attempting to reach the answer.

"Why did you break Terri's finger?"

"What?" The sudden shift has her head spinning, a hand resting firmly upon her shoulder. (Polaris stares down and watches.)

"Why did you break Terri's finger?"

"Beca—wha—I—why does that matter?" She drops Brittany's hand as if it's turned molten. Attempting to disengage, a firm hand holds her in place. Fingers burn into her shoulder, hard blue eyes prodding along her edges softly. She can't know. Santana feels her throat tightening, a cool panic beginning to spread from the base of her spine.

"Because." Brittany's reply is short, simple (as always), but firm.

"Nobody likes her anyway," Santana starts, anger coating her vision. Blue eyes pierce. "She pretends like her shit don't stink—and the way she looks at all of us, it's like we're beneath her. I don't regret it. In fact, I'd break her other fingers right now if I could." _You can't let Brittany know_.

(Because it's always about her.)

The way her lips draw into a dead line and the way her eyebrows relax has Santana's heart burning, the beats rhythm within the endless shadows. _You shouldn't say those sorts of things_, Brittany chides silently. A chill sweeps through her.

"Santana." The way her name is whispered has Santana reeling. It's breathy. Hot. And spreads along her face.

"If the bitch can't learn to shut her mouth, then I'll do it for her," she snaps. Her blood boils just thinking about the wheat haired antagonist. The way her eyes had roved over Brittany. Pitying her. In that sardonic, condescending way. Santana hides her face within the shadows. A heavy silence suffocates, neither moving for what seems like a literal eternity.

Until she feels a finger hook under her chin. A thumb strokes its way along her jaw, feeding into the quickly spreading warmth. _Not now_, she pleads silently. The vicious desire pacing within her veins spikes as she allows her head to be lifted. She can already taste the kiss. (And Santana briefly wonders what it would taste like wrapped in the silver of the moon.)

Dark splotches of shadow slash across Brittany's face like fingers of a past lover scorned. Burnt and broken. Emotion spills, Santana clenching her teeth as hard as she dares. Anticipation. Fear. Hate. Anger. Anxiety. (Love.) When did she start wearing her emotions so plainly? When did she forget to check them? Santana spirals deep within endless blue, into something that she doesn't think she understands.

Because Brittany doesn't have to say anything to say everything. All she has to do is be. And it kills Santana. How can she continue on this way? Something much larger—darker—hoists itself over her shoulders, talons raking her back, scarring her for something else. Under the intense rivers of silver and universe eyes, she crumbles.

(_If you told me you loved me, I'd listen_.)

"I can't." She forces it out, finally. Attempting to drop her head, the fingers curl tighter, baby blues searching. Searching for anything. Searching for everything. Santana is reminded of a day with crushed orchids and rain-spattered windows.

"I don't accept that."

Brittany's response startles Santana. There is no malice, no anger hidden, only patience. Shame suffocates, forcing itself down her throat to block her airways. How many times is she going to have to go through this? (The answer is endless.) A wandering thumb trails its way to gently touch her bottom lip, caressing it softly. Heat radiates from it. And Santana wonders what this is. What does this mean to Brittany?

The thumb removes itself, little static pulses left in its wake. She wants to chase after it. To beg for it to come back. But the shame continues to snake. Until it's nested in her chest. A tight coil of writhing mass threatening to pulse straight out of her. Threatening to devour the one thing that no one can ever take. Or touch. (Except. Except.)

(_Brittany._)

"Neither should you." It's whispered against her lips just before Brittany pulls her into a soft kiss, lips plush against one another. Hot lightning strikes deep within Santana, her heart beginning its erratic pulses as if it's calling. (And Brittany answers.) Soft, yet insistent fingers wrap around her waist, pulling her in closer. But it'll never be close enough. Because Santana knows. She knows. (But she's too afraid to admit.)

It's a short, fleeting gesture. One that has Santana coiled, her heart nearly twisting around her ribs. When the blonde pulls back, her pupils are dark, giving way to the darkest expanse Santana has ever seen. Words shake loose from her throat, spilling out before she can stop them.

"I can't because I think I lo—" She chokes. Intense scrutiny and Brittany is staring at her, eyes unreadable. Face a mask of emotion that scares Santana.

It cracks into that smile.

Because Brittany can see through her.

A deep, insistent flame burns through her center, muscles throbbing with the beat of Brittany's heart. And she doesn't stop herself when she smashes her lips to the blonde's. She doesn't think about the repercussions. Or whispered rumors. Or Terri Schuester. Santana can feel the surprised jolt take Brittany's body.

And it sends a shiver to shake her.

She thinks of only tasting vanilla. And the way it melts upon her tongue. (But there's blood. Where he struck her, an invisible scar marring her lip.) Santana is nearly breathless when she guides the blonde to lean against the cool wall, refusing to break their contact. Her fingers grip Brittany's biceps tightly. (A twitch of Brittany's tight abdomen. And dark stains and crystal green glass.) A low groan parts the shame in her throat, gently coaxing a sharp gasp from the blonde in response.

_Do you see what he's done to her?_

A primal need fogs Santana's mind, her left hand wandering towards a perfect clavicle, fingers dancing (burning) lightly along the harsh bone. (An irregularity, where fractured bones were made to mend. More hidden scars.) Dark eyebrows knit tightly, a passion mixing with the uncontrolled fire beginning to crop within the apex of her legs. A dangerous shadow sits upon Santana's shoulders.

_Can you feel it?_

She nips the bottom of Brittany's lip, tugging at it with her teeth. (She can taste the cry.) A second beat hammers against her chest, the rise and fall of Brittany's breast colliding into her own. Her fingers drag further, her nails scraping harshly against the material of the blonde's clothing. A soft rise of breast begins to catch along her fingers. And Brittany squirms beneath her, another gasp breaking her throat. (Fingers press into her throat, deep bruises threatening to crush her throat.)

_How can you even begin to understand?_

Fingers wind into Santana's hair, nails scraping against her scalp. She releases Brittany's lip, letting it snap back for just a second before she knocks her lips against her own again. There's a viciousness about. Her fingers finally claw their way over Brittany's hardened nipple and she bucks up into Santana, a cry swallowed within the expanse of her mouth. (_"I own you, you fucking little cunt."_)

_You can't change anything._

_She's not okay. And she'll never be okay._

Breathless, Santana pulls back, letting out a roar so heated with anger, she's certain it has peeled the paint further. She releases Brittany's arm and slams her hand into the wall, her head hanging, a veil of dark tresses pooling around her face. Because she knows what he's done. She knows and there's nothing she can do. Dark desire sits.

Her cry rings between them.

And melted eyes look on.

* * *

It's only a matter of time before Quinn descends upon them, the distance harbored within her hazel eyes only expanding. (Brittany thinks that she might be able to see England through the distance, if only just a glimmer.) Puck is hot on her heels, his eyes sunken deep into his skull, black bags indicative of his exhaustion.

Santana has retreated to her own bed by that time, her arms drawn in tight to her chest, shadows playing darkly across her face. The blonde is stunned against the wall, her head still a whirring mass of conflicting ideas. Just when she thinks she understands the woman.

Condensation beads like tumors against a slick pane.

"What happened?" Quinn's voice is nasally with worry, her fingers finding purchase upon the blonde's shoulders. Slowly, she tears her eyes away from Santana's. The door is left open on its hinges.

"Quinn," Brittany states flatly. "What are you doing here?"

The honey blonde nurse does what she always does whenever she fears for Brittany's safety. She begins taking stock. Brittany tries to force an easy smile upon her face, but finds it difficult. Rage still buzzes against her lips. And Santana's dark desire presses into her chest. Should she protect it? (The answer will always be: yes.)

But what is it?

Is it real? Is there even a real anymore? With painted eyes and melted faces. Where words scuttle like bugs in the corners of white-washed rooms and mouths turn rusted against the side of old piping. (Real. Not real.) They breathe to her and whisper in voices long since dead, and Brittany can't help but listen. (How do you say no to your mother?)

There is a Simon-like spirit about Santana. And Brittany doesn't know how to handle it. Is she just a glutton for punishment? What if Santana doesn't like what she has to say? Could Santana hit her? Would she?

_No._

Universe eyes drop into infinity, holding a smoldering stare for what seems like an immeasurable amount of time. (She ages. Dies. Is born again. And comes to stand in this exact same place, fifty years from now. And life then is so much different.) Quinn is speaking, her hands gently cupping the sides of her face, but the blonde pushes them away.

Quinn's hands don't belong there.

She barely registers the shock and hurt that crosses hazel eyes, bringing them that much closer. A tension vibrates in the air, so tight it might snap at any second. But what does it matter? Because all she sees is molten brown and cinnamon lips. Ghosted fingers press into her creamy flesh and she longs for it again.

(There is no world without Santana.)

A smile lights her face.

"—ittany!" Fingers snap in front of her, just barely an inch away from her nose.

"It's just Polaris," she replies quickly, finally focusing in on the insistent nurse. A baffled look crosses her features, perfect eyebrows drawn so tight, Brittany is almost scared they'll fall right off. Puck stands so close to Santana that the blonde can barely make out her form.

A pang, dark green in nature, shoots through her system.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" Quinn tries. The exasperation dwindles through each syllable, indicating that she'd already asked that before.

"I was telling the time."

"Oh, sugar, you don't have a watch. Remember, they had to take it away?" Quinn's mouth twists down into a frown, a spark of pity catching in her eye. She gently brushes loose hairs away from the blonde's face. Brittany is just about to shrug and reply when a dark voice—smoked tones like jazz—seep from the edges of the room. Secretly, she takes solace in them, allowing the way the words roll off of the tongue to caress the side of her face. To sweeten the beat of her ear.

"Watch your fucking mouth," Santana snaps, shouldering her way past Puck, his arms quickly securing around her midsection. If it was any other time, Brittany might have been upset, but for once, she finds his presence a comfort. At least now Santana couldn't break Quinn's finger. Or slap her. Either way.

"Don't start your two-bit Mexican back talk on me, Santana. No one here is threatened by your crazy." Quinn rolls her eyes.

"I don't think Santana is crazy." Brittany amends quietly, her hand slowly rising.

"Thank you, Britt." Butterflies erupt within the pit of her stomach. (Brittany worries for their safety for just a second before embracing them.)

"Don't feed into her ego, sugar. She'll only just get worse," Quinn warns.

"Shoulda never put her in a room with bluebell. That's what gonna make her worse. Ain't never thought I'd see the day."

"Christ, Puck, _diction_. It's like your tongue is flapping wildly within that enormous mouth of yours. Do us all a favor and _swallow it_." Like sulfur, Santana's words burn through her eyes, her body twisting to try and get out of Puck's arms.

"You have an ego, why didn't you tell me?" She'd heard about them somewhere before. Aren't they supposed to live in Australia or something? "Can I ride it?"

All other occupants in the room stop. Redness creeps along caramel skin, Quinn's mouth partially comes unhinged. Red lips, plush and still swollen from their earlier kiss, part. Puck squints his eyes, as if rolling the image over in his mind. The icy fingers of panic creep up Brittany's stomach, her heart sinking within her chest.

"What?" She asks, her eyes darting from each set of eyes. "Did I say something wrong again?" Leveling her gaze at Quinn, she tugs at the ends of her hair. Somewhere water drips. And Brittany's bones feel like granite. (There's a flash of unfamiliar ceiling and freshly laundered bed sheets. The smell of pooling sweat invades her, coating her flesh like a light braise.)

"You certainly know how to pick 'em," Puck sneers, drawing Santana closer to his body. With the awkward spell broken, she shoots him a withering look, redness still dashed across her cheeks.

"You'd best keep a better eye on that dog of yours, or else we'll have to put her down." She'd never heard Quinn so cold, her empty eyes clashing with Santana's. She's pointing at Puck, his eyes turning hard. But it's Santana who speaks first.

"Is there something you'd like to _discuss_, Nurse Hatchet?"

"What's already been said will suffice."

"You tramp, playing into the pocket of the boorish nature of these pigs and you look down and call _me a dog_?" Manic laughter. And Santana's eyes are like coal. But there's something in the way she looks at her. When those dark eyes flick to meet baby blues and fear comes pouring out of the abyss. Brittany can see the protective swell, bobbing against Santana's throat.

Working with the muscles that drown in a sea of her own shame. But why? Why does she feel shame? _You love her_. Watermarks drip and smile, a sliver of silver piercing through the bright buzz of artificial light (It's yellow and sickly and not like any natural thing). Polaris watches and bears the weight. The guilt. The sadness. The crushing nature of what it means to be _human_.

"Oh name calling, is it? How original. Who taught you that? _Atilio_?" Quinn snorts, her hands slowly trailing down Brittany's cheeks. She doesn't like the way they burn. Or the way they erase Santana's deposited embers.

"I haven't had to suck any _cocks_ to get where I'm at, at least."

"Santana," Puck warns. Brittany's voice is frozen. Energy crackles in the room, her heart pounding. Tongue turned ash, she stares at the coal black eyes, where fires rage and gun barrels smoke with the breaths of those robbed.

"Tell me," Quinn starts. Her fingers trail further down Brittany's neck, the blonde's skin crawling. This isn't the Quinn she knows. This is the survivor.

"Quinn, stop," Brittany demands, clamping her hands around the other woman's wrists. Hazel eyes find baby blues. Hurt crests, like white caps against an endless tide. And she knows that the nurse is drowning. (She has been for a long time.) But something, digits pointed and piercing, claws beneath Quinn's iris.

They look more green than brown.

"Did you help kill her or did you simply just watch?"

"What is _wrong _with you?" Brittany pleads, throwing Quinn's hands away. The muscle along Santana's jaw twitches, her body going eerily rigid within Puck's arms. He stares down at her, concern heavy on his brow. She grips his arm tightly, as if letting go would cause the hole in her stomach to devour everything that she is.

"I guess that's the same though, isn't it? Standing by and letting her die without saying anything." A boiling heat radiates off of Quinn, her words flying like arrows (straight and true) into the heart of Santana. Brittany watches the way chocolate eyes drop further into blackness.

(The honey blonde nurse reminds herself to not look into endless blues. It's about survival now. Bile stings the back of her throat.)

"It was me, Quinn. I yelled. There was a spider—please. Stop." She's pushing against the nurse's shoulders, attempting to move her towards the door. She doesn't want to know what she has to say. She doesn't want to know.

_But you do_.

"Brittany—"

"Keep her out of this!"

"—this might interest you."

"Quinn, _don't_!"

"Do you remember that accident out in Harbor Pointe?" (Anything to keep her safe. Anything to keep him away. Anything, anything, anything.)

"There was a spider, Quinn, please _leave. Please_." She's pushing more forcefully against the honey blonde, the nurse nearly out the door now. (_"It's okay, Santi. Once a killer, always a killer. And you'll never forget."_) A grating shriek echoes down the hollow corridor, the lone light of the nurses station pooling static sick against the wall. Deep shadows wind along beautiful skin, hazel eyes glowing dangerously.

"You do, don't you? Where your mother was…killed?" (Santana's face pales. _Mother?_) There is malice in her voice. Malice inflected with terror. But Quinn hesitates. A chill snaps between Brittany's shoulders. _Was killed_.

"S-she died, you know that. There was an accident—she wasn't killed." Pleadingly, the blonde locks eyes with Santana, begging her. Begging her to tell her what she wants to hear. What she needs to hear. Her eyes are dull onyx. "Santana?" (When a star dies, does it kill the others around it?)

"_Puta de mierda, ¿cómo iba a saber_?"

Everything crosses Santana's face in an instant. Like barbs, ripping from puckered ribs, her words tear. Though she doesn't know what they mean, Brittany can feel it. (A lie of omission is still a lie.) Who else knew? Daddy? Simon? (And just like that the maw of the world swallows the sun in one gasping breath.) Quinn holds the banshee's gaze, her lips dipping into a nearly invisible frown.

"I'm sorry, sugar, you can't just stay in the South. The North will always eventually find you," the nurse whispers before she quickly retreats out of the door. Santana continues screaming in a language hidden. (She doesn't notice the tears pooling on the horizon of hazel.)

"_¡Yo no sabí!"_

Somewhere water drips.

"_Lo siento, querida, lo siento._"

Universe eyes are swallowed into infinity.

"_¡Yo no sabía!"_

* * *

Brittany sits next to her at breakfast, but doesn't meet her eye. Her face, devoid of color, looks sunken, like a ship smashed against jagged crags. _Mother_. She thinks of raptured eyes and lost shoes. A long metal pick slicked with red. Staring down at her meal, Santana finds that she isn't hungry. She rolls the soupy brown oatmeal along her spoon, the vague scent of brown sugar coating the thick steam.

Even though people should be used to it by now, they continue to toss wary glances towards Brittany. She can do what she wants, being who she is and on account of the color of her skin, but that doesn't mean the others take too kindly to it. Santana's not delusional. She hears the whispers. And does she care?

The sad truth is: yes.

(Swimming in a pool with sharks, and Santana can only focus on the sun.) A bitterness crops up in the back of her throat, her tongue curling inward at the sudden seizure. It grips her like a vice, forcing itself into her lungs, where she breathes the hatred, guilt and shame. And she thinks that if there was only some way for her to have known. If maybe she would have tried on that night, maybe if she had said something, maybe everything would be different.

(She thinks of a swinging light, casting a halo of fear in an uneven pool.)

She plunges her spoon in deeper to the thickening mass, her eyes set in grim determination. _Speak_, she wills. They haven't exchanged words since Quinn left. Since the Spanish died in her throat, the walls of her esophagus raw from screaming. Puck had held her, but Brittany had lain prostrate upon her bed, her eyes searching for answers within a smoldering iris. (A graveyard of green eyes and broken pianos.)

Quinn isn't present, instead Puck guarding over both of them like a steadfast sentinel. His hands are clasped in front of himself, a tight line working along his jaw. He's all business. And it reminds her of a time with a glass in her hand and Blaine behind a counter. Would it truly be better to be out there than in here? She stares down into her slop.

"Oh, that Terri Schuester makes me so—so cross!" A tray slams down across from Santana. She jumps away from the noise, Brittany suddenly drawn back to attention, blue eyes distant.

Rachel slumps down into the chair across from them, her nostrils flaring, brown eyes wild with rage. A scowl is set deep upon her face, eyebrows drawn tightly together. Redness creeps along her neck, spider web veins bulging beneath her olive skin. If she didn't know any better, Santana would feel nervous by the way the brunette brandishes her spoon. She clutches the tarnished shaft tightly, her knuckles white, the dangerous dip of the utensil deep.

(_Hay Diablo en todos nostros_.)

When no one moves to interrupt her, Rachel sees that as a sign to continue, her shoulders visibly shaking. "She put nail clippings—_nail clippings_—in my food! Doesn't she know there are thousands of starving people in Africa who will die today because they lack the necessary provisions?"

Curious, Santana peers into Rachel's bowl, finding nothing but the endless gruel of brown and grey. Quirking an eyebrow, she regards the smaller woman for the briefest of moments before turning away. Her words stick like glue against the inside of her cotton mouth. Blue eyes pierce into the side of her face and the shame beats up again.

_How could you?_ Universe eyes ask.

_I didn't know_. Her face is veiled, eyes hidden.

_Does that make a difference?_

(How is Santana supposed to tell her now that the world has stopped spinning on turntables and spindles?)

She feels like she should hate Quinn. That the very thought of the honey blonde should send rivers of fire bursting through her veins. That she should taste her tongue, red hot, against the roof of her mouth. But she doesn't. And that, in and of itself, is infuriating. Instead, she just feels defeated. Like she's been beat with a Billy-club.

"Hello—_nail clippings?_" Rachel waves a hand in front of Santana's face. She watches fingers pass by in a blur, her head dropping lower as she fights back the sting in her eye. Like thousands of hot needles poking against her eye lids. Filling her retinas. And they want to spill. But she won't let them.

"I don't understand." The whisper has the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Santana's throat begins to close, pulling her hands so they are hidden under the table. "Did you know her, Santana?"

She shakes her head.

"I don't think you two understand the severity of the situation here. She put _nail clippings_—in—my—breakfast!"

"You would have liked her." Pressure along the top of her leg, and Santana is staring down at a creamy hand. Fingers gently swipe circles along her thigh. Brittany is scooting her chair closer, her hesitant motions briefly interrupted. Rachel lets out an exasperated sigh across from them.

"What is the matter with you two?" She hisses hotly.

"She had pretty, soft hair," Brittany starts. (Universe eyes bleed into a chasm ripped open by hungry jaws.) Santana can hear the tears beginning to form on the edge of her words. Panic begins to grip her.

"Puck—" Santana snaps.

"And smelled of those little mint candies—"

"Puck—I need out."

"Santana, are you _crying_?"

"Puck, I need out of this fucking place, _now_." Her voice begins rising in octaves. (Blood spatters upon oil stained concrete, the creak of leather grating.)

"Her eyes were like diamonds, you'd know them if you saw them." (A raptured stare and silent shriek that shakes the chest without any sound.) Santana heaves, her stomach a roiling mass. A storm on high seas, where a darkness rips at her insides with silvered rods.

"Santana?" Rachel is leaning over the table, her hand outstretched. Heavy hands drop around her shoulders.

"I can't. I can't. How could this—why is—"

(_Guilt is never forgotten, Santana._)

Fingers brand her skin and Brittany watches. Baby blues are dry, but there is a chasm within the pupil. It echoes with silent screams and Santana panics further. Lungs burning, she attempts to inhale, a cool sweat cropping along her skin. Nausea builds as she begins to stand.

Suddenly it's too stifling.

The walls are too white.

The lights too illuminating.

Static coils and snaps in the air, like angry teeth, and sweat beads between her shoulder blades. What is she doing? She pushes herself away from the table, standing upon shaky knees, her vision tunneling as the world begins to tilt.

"Is it the oatmeal? Did Terri poison the whole batch?" Rachel's high voice carries to her as if she's caught in a dream.

"Quinn says that Santana knew my mother," Brittany states softly, as if she's still trying to process everything. A weak smile flutters to her lips. It's fake and sharp as daggers.

"She did?" Hesitance.

Santana lurches forward. There's only so much one person can bear. (Is this what it means to be _human_?) Running down the walkway, her stomach does another uncomfortable flip. She doesn't hear Brittany's response. Or the way that her bowl shatters against the tiles as it is knocked from the table. She doesn't notice the way Terri's eyes follow her. Or the way she cradles her hand.

Because if she did, she would have noticed the way Brittany's eyes pleaded for her not to leave. (Because there is no world without Santana. Not anymore.)

She bursts through the glass veranda doors.

The wind whips her face.

* * *

Rachel Berry likes to think of herself as a good friend. A proprietor of good will and cheer. Because who in their right mind doesn't love her? She is basically God's gift to all of these poor, unfortunate souls. A tragic ingénue with a marred past (the gates were high, wrought iron and heavy) mixed with all sorts of endeavors yet to conquer her.

It's no secret that she's the best at what she does. Everyone talks about her, whether it's good or bad, it doesn't matter. She's a star and an idol for young girls striving for greatness everywhere in such a horribly scarred landscape (steamrolled, the slow chug of an engine burning holes in her ears) pocketed with wars and deaths.

Still hunched over the table, she stares holes into Brittany, the airy blonde looking with misted eyes after the foul-mouthed devil she likes to try to call friend. Rachel saw the self-hate burning within chocolate colored eyes before Santana had decided to remove herself from their presence. There was panic there.

Just as there is panic in Brittany.

The blonde twists her hair around her left index finger, over and over and over again, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. Slowly, Rachel sits, continuing to stare at the woman lost in thought. Piercing eyes never leave the threshold (of mouths and eyes). There is strain all along Brittany's neck as if it physically pains her to sit in the chair.

And Rachel Berry isn't stupid.

"You could chase after her, you know. It would be tragically sapphic of you." She realizes that she shouldn't say such risqué things in a place such as this, but Rachel finds that most people are too ill read to understand a word she says. (Bullet casings had hit the ground with dull thuds, little bits of matter spattering against barbed wire stained red.)

"But I don't have any rocks," Brittany mutters, fractures spindling along her words.

"No, Brittany—what I mean is—oh, never mind." Rachel sits back with a huff, arms crossed in front of her chest. To explain would defeat the purpose.

"She doesn't want me to."

"Of _course_ she does. She's just being dramatic for attention, I do it all the time." She flutters her eyelashes, bringing a hand to her chest. _Attention-whore_. (Clouds so black, they blocked out the sun. Was it night? Or was it day? The starscape was made of rising embers.)

"She's not." Blue eyes harden, Brittany leaning forward. "People keep saying bad things about Santana and she tries to pretend like she's made of marble—or something really, really hard—but she's not. She's angry because she's scared and because she can't recognize all of the good things that have been built inside of her little, tiny brain-house."

"Then why don't you tell her that?" A large grin spreads across Rachel's face. If she could just help them. (But there's only one way she really knows how.)

"Tell her what?"

"That."

"…I don't think there's enough room in her little, tiny brain-house for two people. It would get horribly cramped," Brittany adds as an afterthought.

Rachel lets out a dramatic sigh (why do anything half-hearted, after all? To practice is to perfect and she must be ready for her silver screen debut). Swiping some loose hairs away from her face, the brunette stands, pushing her tray towards the center of the table. She'd be damned if Terri Schuester got the better of her after so many months.

"I don't think the size of her brain-house is the matter of concern, Brittany." Is she really subscribing to this analogy? "I'm not much for hiding the truth, and I do love a good story, so believe me when I say that Santana has more than enough room for you. You just have to go and talk to her."

With determination, Rachel smoothes out her dress, taking her discarded napkin and gently wiping the spatters of oatmeal from her shoe. She's actually a little surprised when Brittany kneels and begins picking up the shards of the bowl. (Tongues pressed through midnight lips, bursting like wet cotton.)

Where are the orderlies?

"Why don't we let the staff take care of that?" she edges nervously. Rachel walks around the table, careful to not step in any of the brown mess, her hands winding around Brittany's shoulders. The other woman trembles. And her stomach sinks.

_If only it were a different time, in a different place_.

"But—"

"If they see you with anything remotely sharp, what do you think they'll do?" She motions towards the bandage still wrapped around the blonde's wrist.

"I didn't try to kill myself," Brittany hisses, drawing her hand back. She clutches it to her chest, staring hard at Rachel.

"Do not mistake my concern for an accusation, I'm merely worried for Santana's mental health and thus, by proxy, you. Not to say that I don't worry about you, since we are more than mere acquaintances, but if you were to disappear for days on end, like you are wont to do, I fear that the repercussions would be rather grisly." A blank blue stare. Brittany narrows her eyes and Rachel knows she's trying to decide if she's being tricked. She can't help the hurt, but neither can Brittany. So she masks her grimace with a brighter smile.

"What do you mean? I've never been away. Did I forget something again?" Anxiety.

Puzzled, the singer tilts her head to the side, her fingers twitching. Could she not remember? (The water was javelins of ice, hearts stuttering in emaciated chests.)

"You mean to tell me that you don't know where you go?"

"I go to therapy three times a week, and to the garden," Rachel notices the blue in Brittany's eyes begin to cloud. "and sometimes I like to go to the pond to talk to Oliver, but there's only so much I can do. I've never been allowed day trips out."

She doesn't like where this is headed. A stone floats in her stomach, and Rachel gets the impression something is happening, but she doesn't know what. Neither of them know what. With the absence of Nurse Fabray, the singer feels like this is the calm before the storm. Or maybe the storm has already hit?

"O-oh, it must be nothing then."

"What happened last time?" Brittany stands. She flicks her eyes over towards the threshold, the hawkish eyes of the Warder prowling.

"Hm?"

"What happened last time I...uh…"

"Oh, nothing too serious. Santana just threatened Nurse Fabray. My hearing, while it is pitch perfect, was unfortunately masked by the sound of the Warder attempting to explain to me why we are only allowed two sets of bed sheets, which I find barbaric, by the way. Am I expected to sleep in soiled bed clothes day after day? No!" Rachel is indignant. Obviously. But to make it more obvious, she grinds her heel into the floor, shaking her head.

"She did _what_?" Brittany is suddenly gripping her arms.

"I know, the indecency! I am a star, and as such, I should be allowed to have fresh sheets daily." Rachel doesn't like the intensity behind Brittany's gaze. Or the way the Warder has begun to snake her way towards them. Her blood chills. (It smelled of waste and death, teeth rotted from gums and bellies bursting with nothing.)

"No, Rachel, Santana. She _threatened_ Quinn?" Her grip tightens. Rachel feels very much a mouse with two sets of blue eyes piercing through her.

"Heatedly debated with, is the more correct term. She was quite beside herself." Her explanation falls short and fast. "She didn't even have the energy to spit venom like usual. It was quite peculiar."

"Crayola." The name is long and drawn out, musicality wilting the corners. Rachel's fight-or-flight instinct begins to take hold. (He stood, his tired eyes a ghost haunted and stained scarlet.)

Brittany snaps her head around, locking eyes with the Warder. Her freshly pressed uniform casts a white shadow against her face. Her cheekbones are harsh and Rachel wonders if she's killed infants with them as part of her pre-harassment ritual. It seems appropriate.

"She fusses over you something fierce, Brittany," the singer hisses. She forces a bright smile onto her face, her insides squeezing tighter the closer the Warder gets. _You can do it. You've done it before. Don't let her get the best of you._

"But she always runs—good morning, Gunnr!" Brittany breaks away from her sentence almost faster than Rachel can keep up. Like any great actress, the brunette flawlessly transitions into another persona. How dramatic should she be? She prepares herself with a flip of her hair, her hands landing daintily upon her hips.

"I find that derogatory and crude, Crayola. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"_Actually_, dear Warder, you should feel quite honored. It's not every day you're ranked as high as one of the Valkyries." To be honest, Rachel is actually impressed Brittany knows the name. She wouldn't peg the other woman as much of a reader. Or smart. At all. She's sweet, though, and that's all that _really_ matters.

"If I wanted to be a vulva-whats-it, I wouldn't have given my right breast in the Great War to save a small child from the trenches." Rachel narrows her eyes, Brittany's gaze dropping to intensely stare at the older woman's chest. Carefully a creamy hand reaches towards the Warder, Rachel quickly grabbing the blonde's wrist before she has time to actually make contact.

"What's in there?" If curiosity didn't kill the cat, Rachel is certain it's steps away from killing Brittany.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of such a visit, Warder? Have you come to further discuss the use of more bed sheets?" Anything to pull her attention away. Although, she really _could_ use better bed sheets. She saw a woman recently infested with ring worm. Her skin crawls. ("It'll be okay," he said, crossing the threshold. Billowing stacks of smoke snaked into the sky. His blood was already ash.)

"Hold the line, where's Stalin?" A boney finger points at each of them in turn. "And Q's missing, too? Don't tell me she's off whoring herself again." Brittany bristles next to her.

"I presume you mean Santana when you say Stalin, and while I agree she is quite abrasive and acidic in nature, I do not think that she is Russian. I would hazard to guess she is from Spain. Or Mexico. Though, her Spanish is lazy and full of offensive drawls, it simply can't be helped." Maybe if Santana opened her diaphragm more instead of always sulking in the comfort of her own arms. Sitting up straight is key.

"Santana's Spanish? I thought she was Cuban." Brittany deadpans.

"Who told you that?"

"Do you think she knows how to make those flat, little bland-tasting pancakes?"

"Are you insulting my intelligence?" the Warder snaps, completely ignoring the conversation unfolding around her.

"You mean tortillas?"

"Ew, gross, Rachel. Santana doesn't eat cute things." The brunette narrows her eyes.

"I don't think you're understanding, Brittany."

"How would you even get them out of their little, baby shells, it would be—"

Fingers snap between the two, the icy fury of Hades radiating off the Warder. Rachel presses her lips into a firm line, harsh words lashing across her cheeks. "Eyes, here. Now." Once she's absolutely certain she has their attention, Sue points down at the mess cooling against the tiles.

"Which one of you did this?" There is no nonsense about. Neither of them speak. Brittany rolls her tongue in her mouth, looking down at the brown ocean that separates them from the Warder in a sticky mass.

"It was me," Rachel finally says, unable to handle the way the Warder's eyes stab into Brittany. (She used to like gold stars, but with them sewn into haunted eyes, they lost their meaning.)

"Don't fucking lie to me." A hand tangles itself into the front of her dress and pulls. She's inches away from the Warder. Rachel doesn't feel her breath. Suiting. She doesn't think the woman possesses any sense of life, anyway. The oatmeal pools around her simple leather shoe.

_This is it_. She's thought it hundreds of times. But Rachel knows there's only one way she can help.

"I've never lied a day in my life. I simply misjudged the distance my tray was from the edge of the table when I sat down. Dreadful mess, I had just managed to finish cleaning my shoes before you arrived." She taps the Warder's bicep, hoping her grimace is convincing. She knows that it is. Years and years of practice does that.

Unfortunately, it doesn't take antagonists into account.

"It was Santana, Warder." The high, honey-sweet voice is laced with arsenic. Periwinkle blue eyes and wheat-blonde hair appears just behind the hawkish Warder. Terri's eyes twinkle with the prospect of revenge. "She threw it in a fit of rage and then ran out of the mess. I saw the whole thing. It has me—" she sniffs, but her eyes are dry. _Amateur_. "—all sorts of upset. Why does she have to be so—so—so angry? I just don't feel safe."

Nose to nose with an unchecked dog, Rachel feels dread pricking at the base of her neck. The Warder doesn't snarl, but she can hear the anger behind her words as she draws the singer closer. "Of course it was, Mrs. Schuester. I'm sorry kookadilla el Diablo scared you. I'll have to go have a chat with her," she pauses, a heavy stare landing upon Brittany. "Won't I."

"You _liar_," Brittany hisses. "She's _lying_. Santana didn't throw her bowl."

Rachel is pushed back and released. This definitely did not go as planned. _Terri Schuester_. Summoning all of the hatred she can, Rachel glares at the woman. She hopes it's a withering glare. A part of her finds the woman sad. So terribly sad. That she can sit there and destroy other people, all because she is upset that her own life was so quickly destroyed.

"Unfortunately for you, Crayola, you think that rabbits shit chocolate and rainbows taste like fruit swirls and sugar cane. You can't remember waking up in the morning—hell—you can't even remember trying to kill yourself, you're so deep in your own delusion. So why would anyone listen to you?" Brittany grows quiet, but the intensity never leaves her eyes. Rachel casts a small glance her way, hoping that it's some sort of comfort, but she can already see the wounds bleeding across the valleys of her soul.

"She's a menace, Warder. Santana shouldn't be allowed to be in this ward. She should be in—"

"Don't talk about Santana that way!" Brittany has her fists clenched. And Rachel knows she wants to throw punches.

"Where is she." The Warder growls. It's not a question, it's a demand.

"You're not really going to take the word of a pathologically lying, child-slayer, are you?" Rachel huffs before Brittany can get herself into trouble.

"I did not kill my baby!"

"It wasn't your baby to begin with, you abhorrent husk of a woman!" Rage begins to rise and Rachel steps out in front of Brittany, hoping Terri's imminent breakdown will be distraction enough for the Warder to forget about this whole debacle.

"Where—is—Santana?"

"He was mine, he always belonged to me, I deserved him!"

"So you _cut him out of another woman's stomach_?" (Lifeless eyes patrolled the dark chambers, frozen fingers still clutching empty tins once filled with warm water.)

"He was _mine_!" Terri is shrieking now, mad tears clinging to her eyelashes. Her fists are balled at her sides, and Rachel knows she can feel the warm blood still marring her skin. There is a ring around Terri Schuester's iris. One that always put the singer on edge.

It belies absolute faith radical in nature.

Rachel turns her nose up, her eyebrows raised high. She gives the Warder a knowing glance, motioning towards Terri. "You trust her, then you've misplaced your trust, dear Warder." She's certain that the hall is silent. Rachel can feel all eyes on her and she thrives. Puffing her chest out, she sets her lips in a grim line.

"He was _mine_! You know _nothing_ about the love of a mother, you dirty Jewish runaway!" Terri screams, still caught in her own psychosis.

The floor feels like it's been ripped right out from under her. (A pink triangle and he was pushed aside. She grasped for his fingers, but they were out of reach. Always out of reach. He stood facing the chain linked fence where she couldn't see his eyes.)

Terri is on the ground now, clutching her stomach, eyes wild. She continues screaming, the Warder looking between them all in indecision. Finally she sighs and bends down next to the hysterical woman, shooting the two remaining women a look that says 'this isn't over.'

Rachel maneuvers around Brittany, grabbing her uninjured wrist on the way and begins making their exit. Honestly, she prefers a dramatic storm out rather than the quick and sneaky, but she feels her typical method would be detrimental. Unnoticed, they pass through the threshold and begin moving down the halls.

When they're a good twenty feet away, Brittany finally speaks. "Was that true?"

"Did you hear what I said to the Warder? I have never lied a day in my life."

"But—"

"Sometimes, people do things they don't really want to do, Brittany. Those things can change people. I refuse to let them control who I am and alter the person that I want to become." Humbled, Brittany slowly nods her head. "A great actress knows when to play a role and when to stop and let the world see the real her." They reach the rec room, that hideous orange couch looking lonesome and tired. "A role can affect her life, but it will not change her. Do you understand?"

A dark figure leans against the railing of the porch, twisted hair gathered around a shoulder. The head hangs, and Rachel gently motions towards the glass doors. "Don't let her be afraid. Even if it seems like the world is out to get you, even if all you want to do is curl up and die, don't let her be afraid."

"What if she keeps running away?" And for a split second, Rachel sees universe eyes and is caught breathless.

"Santana has a flair for the dramatic—not as well defined as my own, but it's there all the same. In all the stories, the damsel wants to be saved." A wide grin spreads across her lips and Rachel pulls the blonde into a tight hug. She feels Brittany stiffen, but she doesn't let go.

"How do I do that?" Her voice is throaty, as if she's fighting against her own inner fears.

"You tell her everything."

There's a pause, Rachel still clinging to the blonde for dear life. Her heart aches, but her smile still presses on. If she can just make this okay, if she can just make them happy, then she'll be okay. Everything will be okay.

A flash of hazel catches the brunette's eye. Quinn watches at the intersection of hallways, her head shaking. Shadows dance across her beautiful face, casting rivers of blackness against pale skin. Wrinkling her eyebrows, Rachel wants to ask her _what_, but is startled into silence by Brittany.

"I love her and she is going to die. How do I tell her that?"

(Quinn hears everything.)

(_Arbeit Macht Frei_, it will haunt her forever.)

* * *

**Translations:**

Puta de mierda, ¿cómo iba a saber? – You fucking bitch, how could I have known?

¡Yo no sabí! – I didn't know

Lo siento, querida, lo siento. – I'm sorry, darling, I'm sorry.

Hay Diablo en todos nostros. – There is Devil in us all.

* * *

**Author's Note: Well long time no see! Hopefully this chapter is everything you ever dreamed it would be, because lemme just tell you: Rachel has been my hidden bb since the start of the story. What did you guys think of her? I really want to know. And what about Quinn? I like to hear what you guys are thinking about them. Also: LOLOL Terri cut a baby out of a woman's stomach. Who the fuck does that? (UNSAFE, YOU GUYS, DON'T TRY IT.)  
**

**On another note, I'm currently working on a Halloween fic for a little thing that my lovely beta, Swinging Cloud, is putting together. That should be out within the next couple of weeks. It's certainly a lot less dramatic than this one, so you guys should keep on the lookout. I've also started developing my next tale once Strange Fruit is completed.**

**It involves VooDoo. :D**

**Also, look forward to next week. I have a feeling you guys will like what I have planned. (And no, it doesn't involve more ECT.)**

**Anyway, you can always find me on tumblr (x-roulette-x . tumblr . com). It's mostly me flailing about Brittana and video games, sometimes other shows, but whatever. And if there are enough people interested, I might be inclined to give a sneak peek at some of the projects I have in the pipeline. ;)**

**I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed last chapter, you guys are the light of my life, the rock unweathered by the hurricane, the ever present reminder of love and goodness and life. So, you know. Thanks. Sho'tie, you da best. Also thanks to you all who lurked and read. But don't be shy. I don't bite. I'm pretty harmless.**

**An extra special thanks for my beta, ****Swinging Cloud****, because without her—without her, I would be incomplete. You guys should totally be stoked about **_**Savage! **_**It's going to be great and I'm sure to flail about it once she finally starts to write it. I guess I can thank ****Negative Spaces****, too. But only a singular thank you. Because she only helped me with one sentence, and it was mostly her just arguing about the word click v snap. So. Whatever. I guess go and read **_**Battlesong**_**, too. I guess.**

**See you all next week for the next chilling installment of **_**Strange Fruit**_**!**

**/heart**


	10. Just Santana

**Author's Note: **So before we get into this chapter, and since I like to mix things up a bit, I'm going to take care of the formalities at the beginning. So, to all of you who follow me on tumblr, you know that I said that this chapter might be late. Weeeell, I'm a dirty little ho, so I accidentally lied. Surprise! Inspiration hit and I had to write! So. Hooorraaaay!

The Halloween fic should be out sometime within the next couple of days. So keep your eyes open. I'm really excited about that one, it's been a blast to write. Also, if you guys like pirates, my beta is gearing up for _Savage! _soon and even if it's not out yet, I'm reaaally excited to see a swashbuckling tale. You guys should just go and read all of her stuff, it's basically fantastic.

To my beautiful reviewers: /heart—You guys keep me going through the day. And someone asked if part of the fic would take place out of the asylum and to them I say: :D

Thanks to all of those lurkers, readers, and silent-bobs that have been meandering about, you guys can get a /heart as well. But I promise I don't bite, if you ever feel daring enough to say something. I'm pretty much harmless. Pretty much. And an extra super special big awesome fantastic thank you to my beta **Swinging Cloud**, because well—she deserves it.

This chapter is a turning point within the story and gears up A LOT of big things that are soon to come. So without anymore rambling: On with the show.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Just Santana**

_sweet and fresh_

"You ain't doin' so hot." Puck leans against the railing, his dark eyes cast out over the grounds. He rolls his tongue in his mouth, fingers clasping and unclasping as he fidgets and fights for what he wants to say.

Taking deep breaths, Santana lets her head hang over the railing, the mist from the morning clinging to her hair. Anxiety still builds throughout her systems, her chest closing and tightening, teeth chewing upon quickly chapping lips. There is bile, hot and tangy, on the back of her throat, a dark shadow resting beneath her eyes.

"Did you puzzle that one out all on your own, or did you have to ask one of the doctors?" she snaps. Of course she isn't doing well. Even a blind man would be able to tell. Heat still works intricate patterns upon her thigh where Brittany's fingers had left off and she wonders how something so innocent could thrive in a place like this.

(It can't.)

Her throat closes with more tears, her teeth grinding nearly to dust. What's the point of all this? To make her better? Santana lets a bitter laugh rend her chest nearly in two, dark eyes tracing frozen rivers captured within the grain of the wood. Nothing can make her better. Nothing. Because it's always Brittany, and there's nothing they can do about it.

"Well what can I do?" he asks, his face scrunching up. Puck looks like he wants to spit and cuss, like he wants to set the world on fire. Santana almost resents him for that, but recognizes that it's only because he cares. He'd been her right hand for years, after all.

"Get me the fuck outta here," she sighs in defeat. It's too much to hope for, but Santana doesn't know if she can handle anymore. It's all nonsense.

"Sounds like a bad penny novel," Puck mutters, chewing around the inside of his cheek. He lets out a long breath before turning towards her, dark eyes soft. The lines on her face are deep, dark circles curling under her eyes like bruises. The fire usually kindled in her iris is replaced by a dull lacquered sheen.

"How could I have known, Puck?" She knows he doesn't hold the answer to her question, but she tries none the less. The eves drip methodically with the dew of the morning, low banks of fog rolling atop the distant pond. A chill sweeps through her as the silence settles, his dark stare searching.

(Somewhere the weight of the sky crushes.)

"The way I figger," he finally says, his words chosen carefully. "She ain't sore atcha. I don't much think that girl could ever be, if it's you. She's just lost, is all, needin' someone to come along 'n help her." Swiping his hand along the rail, Puck bats at invisible flecks of dirt.

"What do you mean?" Santana stares hard at him, her eyebrows drawing into a tight line.

"If ya can't sort it out yerself, Santana, then maybe you shouldn' be askin' me." Shrugging his shoulders, he lets his gaze wander back towards the dull horizon.

"Don't say cryptic shit and then not explain yourself," she snarls, grinding her heel in frustration. He casts her a weary glance, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Biting her tongue, she waits, the silence falling between them thick, like wool. On the edge of the tree line, a black figure moves, the movements cautious while retaining fluidity.

She thinks of tight legs and taut calves, a finger drawing a long line, scarred along the fibers of her soul and she is tied. Tied to a force much bigger than her self. To a woman with universe eyes and vanilla lips. Gently, she touches fingertips to her mouth, hoping to draw back the sparking taste of sunshine and warmth. How could she have marred it with such bitterness and anger?

(When darkness flares, how can it not consume?)

"Christ, are ya dense, or somethin'? I ain't never pegged ya as slow," Puck finally drawls. Santana doesn't even care enough to glare at him. Shoulders drooping, she stares down at the flowerbeds, the scent of wet dirt and decaying leaves submitting to that cool October chill. Soon the ground will be frozen and iced over, little flakes of fat white to blanket the trees in a stifling silhouette.

"Oh that's rich," she bites. Frustration builds, hot and deep, her chest expanding with the clawing demon slowly working its way out of her throat. He shakes his head, a knowing scowl already set upon his face. "Look at the pot calling the kettle black." She motions at him, her lips twisted in disgust.

"Yeah, you're bein' a right idiot. Bluebell ain't sore atcha, but I sure as hell am." He flicks his wrist along the railing again, a redness creeping along the collar of his jacket. His skin looks darker in contrast to the white, his eyes that much blacker. Certainly, Puck is passable in White society, but he doesn't really much care for it. Silly disputes based off of the color of skin, how stupid, he thinks. (That's the second thing she likes about him.)

"What the fuck are you sore about? I haven't done a damn thi—"

"Right, you haven't done a _damn_ thing." He's pointing at her now. His eyes burn and she recognizes the stint behind the iris. This brown-green iris. It's the look Quinn gets whenever she stares at Santana. Whenever she rushes to Brittany's side. When the honey blonde sneers in satisfaction. Or watches with tight lips, saying nothing.

"You piece of shit, watch your goddamned mouth!" she rounds. Demons rip away, her heart hammering madly in her chest. She doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to hear what he has to say. Because it'll be too much. (It'll always be too much.)

"All I see is you playin' the victim, Santana. But you ain't the real victim here, yer just a coward, afraid 'n lonely 'n hurtin' the one good thing that's probably ever gonna stumble inta yer miserable, rotten life 'n ya can't even give two shits to care enough ta notice!" Puck advances towards her, his finger pressing lightly into her chest, jabbing her once. "Stop bein' such a selfish dame 'n getcher shit together before I fuckin' wallop you good."

"I'm in an _asylum_, you fucking whore-house hoaky. And while you're sleeping in your own bed at night, drinking the swill at Cat's Cradle, I'm here listening to goddamn women chewing their tongues off. Do you know what that cock-sucking St. James has done to me?" She shoves him back, her muscles burning with rage. Blood pumping fast, Santana takes a menacing step forward.

"He ain't done nothin' to ya, Santana. You ain't got all them feelings 'n some shit tyin' ya to somethin' physical. You seen men die, fuck, you've cut 'em to pieces and made soup from their bones fer whistlin' atcha! Don't you be tellin' me any different, I ain't a moron." Regaining his ground, he stares down hard at her, and Santana feels small. Jaw set ridged, he jabs his finger into her chest again, harder this time. Her shoulder rolls back.

"Oh look at you, Puck, acting all high and mighty when you can't even get a woman to bend over without the flash of coin. Tell me, if you pay them enough, will they say they love you?" Low blow and Santana knows it. He puffs his chest out, the muscles in his arm flexing.

"Whatchu think they do to Brittany, huh? Think that her life is all sunshine 'n rainbows? Ain't you seen the way she looks? You fuckin' cunt, getcher head out of yer ass 'n stop runnin' away from all yer goddamn problems." The air is ripped from her lungs, her teeth snapping shut in an attempt to keep it in. A hurricane tears through her stomach, the bile on the back of her throat becoming more insistent, ears ringing. She can feel the color drain from her face, the anger fleeing just as quickly as it had come.

"If you keep goin' on this way, you ain't gonna have no one left, then you'll really be the victim," he adds, a softness touching his voice. Big hands run along her biceps, working in a slow, soothing stroke.

"What if—"

"There ain't time ta play 'what if's!' You gotta stop beatin' around the bush, before someone decides to burn the whole damn thing down." She stares hard at something in the distance, far too focused on the way light beams down from between grey clouds.

"And what do you expect me to say?" She huffs, arms crossing. It's more out of defeated resolve than the will to be temperamental. "'Hi Brittany, my name is Santana, and golly, you're rather gorgeous and I've only known you for five whole minutes, but I love you?' Because that," she throws her arms into the air. "Is ridiculous." (How many times has such a declaration been made to the Heavens?)

(_Countless_.)

"S'a start," he replies with an easy shrug. (She doesn't notice his eyes cutting away, or the way his lips twitch into an easy smirk.)

"And what the hell do you know," she growls.

(How many times has it replied?)

(The silence is the answer.)

"I don't know a lotta things, Santana, but Bluebell's holdin' a mighty bright torch for ya, 'n she ain't been too dainty 'bout it neither. She's been a helluva lot braver than you ever were." He rolls his eyes, the smirk widening. "Lord only knows what she sees in a devil like you, though."

(_Infinity_ and the smolder of everything.)

Stomach sinking, she turns back to the banister, leaning on it once again. "I can't survive here, Puck. They'll kill me before they let me leave." Her fate, sealed in wax and writ with a black tipped pen, clings to her like a broken melody only remembered in a state of drunkenness.

"No one's dyin' here." Voice cool, he leans with his back towards the grounds, facing the institute. "S'long as I'm around." He shakes his head, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. Not paying him any mind, a dangerous thought occurs. A wolf in sheep's clothing. With razor teeth, but the promise of comfort and warmth. Santana begins stitching the gaping wound in her chest back up.

"You could take her, though," she whispers.

"What?"

"Take her and leave. Get her out of this hell hole."

"'N ya don't think Simon would have somethin' ta say?" He quirks an eyebrow.

"Promise me, Puck."

"I ain't promisin' you shit, la diabla."

"The fuck you aren't." It's that look in her eye. That smolder, black coal burning hotly within the ring of her iris has his skin crawling. The way her eyebrows crush into a harsh line, her knuckles white from the pressure of gripping the railing.

"You think she'd just up 'n leave?" he reasons.

"Who wouldn't?"

"Shit, Santana. That girl would rather kill a bug."

"Then you make her leave, Puck. You fucking _make_ her leave."

"You can't tell me that ain't gonna kill you!" A gust whips around them, seeming to chill straight to the bone. His eyes flick away again, this time Santana taking notice. Annoyed, she steps close to him again.

"It isn't about _me_."

"You can't make decisions for me, Santana."

_What?_

Her stomach drops straight to her feet, the world tilting on its axis. Trees sway in the distance, melting together like drops of a watercolor, sweet vanilla reaching her senses. Demons rip at her insides and Santana feels lost, the stitches coming undone. (_"Some people are made for healing, some are made for hurting, some are made for screaming. Which category do you fall under? I think we both know."_)

She meets Puck's eyes and watches her trust crumble. Why didn't he say anything? How long has she been standing there? She grips the banister tighter afraid to find universe eyes. Afraid that should she let go for just a split second, her bones would be ripped straight from her flesh, her heart a beating stump, struggling upon the worn floorboards of an old porch. Fingers coil around her wrist tugging insistently, another hand splaying itself in the small of her back.

"It's nice to meet you, Santana," she breathes against the side of her face. A furious blush bursts along caramel skin and Santana suddenly finds her clothing to be too warm. "I'm really glad you think I'm pretty—and I may forget and say silly things that make little to no sense, but—I love you, too."

_If you told me you loved me, I'd listen._

* * *

At first she doesn't say anything, muscles like smooth steel beneath her hands. Red lips tremble, a vastness wrenching itself open within the abyss of chocolate eyes. Her body coils tightly as she attempts to push off and away from the railing, Brittany easily reading the fight or flight initiation within Santana's survival instincts.

"What're you doing?" She twitches beneath her grasp, the sheer anxiety spiraling in her eyes making the blonde smile in what she hopes is a reassuring way. It's endearing, the way Santana panics, the way she doesn't want anyone to really see and sift through the countless thoughts that plague her mind.

"If you leave, the sky will fall," Brittany blurts, her mind grasping for any sort of cataclysm. She grips Santana's wrist tighter, drawing her own body closer. Inhaling deeply, smoked cinnamon courses through her system, a smile curling at the edge of her lips, despite the circumstance. It's static along her flesh, little arcs of lightning sparking and leaping. Her heart gives a maddening twist, her body wishing to be closer.

(Because Santana is: cocaine.)

Winding her fingers into the material of her dress, Brittany's grip tightens. She's afraid that should she relax, even for a moment, that Santana will run. She'll run and run and run until she can't run anymore, and people can only run so long before everything catches up to them. But Brittany doesn't want to have to catch up. (Because Santana is: _always_ an inevitability.)

"The sky will still be there when I'm not," Santana replies slowly. She can't tell if her voice is quivering from fear or excitement. Probably both.

"But it'll look different," she whispers.

Puck flicks his eyes towards them, an unreadable expression crossing his face. He's intruding and she so desperately wants to ask him to leave, but Brittany knows that they can't be left alone. It's against the _rules_. Uncomfortable, the young man tries to melt into the shadows of one of the porch columns, his mouth twisted in a half smile, half grimace.

"It'll still be the same," Santana insists, trying to pull away. Brittany forces herself closer, easily barring off any route of escape. The hairs on the back of her neck rise, cinnamon breath washing over her face. It would be so easy to just tip forward and capture perfect lips between hers. It would be so easy.

"It won't be," she insists. Bottom teeth begin to worry at dark lips and Brittany finds herself pouting. Too scared to let go, she watches the way teeth tug and nip, a dark pull beginning in the pit of her stomach. She holds tighter.

"You're wrong. It'll still be the same sky, with the same stupid damn stars and the same stupid damn clouds and the same stupid damn moon. Nothing will change." Each _damn_ falls like a hammer upon an anvil, her heart poorly tempered, the blunt edge bruising. Doesn't she want this?

"But without you, everything will be empty!" The pitch in her voice hitches, baby blues heated with a passion burnt around the edges.

"I can't do this, Brittany!" Smoked words rip like barbed wire and the blonde feels blood welling along the contours of her ribs. Needles pierce deep into her lungs with each breath, pain slowly beginning to numb her senses.

"Am I doing something wrong?" Brittany asks, strain in her voice. (The noose around her heart gives a violent tug and she wonders if it's going to break.)

"No! It's—" Santana lets out an exasperated sigh, her head hanging in defeat for a couple of seconds while she gathers her thoughts. "It's just _you_." Because it's always her. Hurt wells deep within her chest and she contemplates letting Santana go for the briefest of moments before she finds her words. Because she _has_ to try.

"I'll try to remember better, Santana, and I'll work on those things that you don't like and—" Before the words have time to start bubbling forward, molten dark eyes interrupt her. They blaze like a firestorm, consuming and powerful.

"It's _you_ and every time I see you crying I want to filet the fuckers causing your tears. When I see you smile, I want to write goddamn _poetry_," she says it as if the very word causes her pain. "And spout nothing but ridiculous words that don't actually say anything other than all the things I would get for you if I was fucking able. People are cruel, they lie and cheat and manipulate and then there's_ you_. And if I couldn't protect that, if I couldn't keep them away or make you happy or protect you, I wouldn't be _just_ Santana anymore. I'd be _la pistolera_, killer, Simon. I'd light the match and watch the world burn.

"Don't you understand? _I love you_, and that is the most dangerous thing of all."

She holds her stare, the tips of her fingers beginning to grow numb. Santana loves her. She loves her. She'd heard her say it before, but now she's telling her without her back turned. Brittany can't help the butterflies erupting in her stomach, or the way the world seems to bend along her vision. She can't help the way her fingers grasp even tighter (something she thought impossible) or the way her lips pull into a smile, soft and for _just _Santana.

(Because Santana is: infinity.)

"You could never be Simon," she starts softly. She tugs on a caramel wrist again, this time Santana following. Carefully, the blonde wraps her arms around her waist, peering deep into the blackness of her pupil. "And love isn't dangerous. It's good and kind and makes you all warm and fuzzy inside like those robes rich people wear. Sometimes there's little pokies along the way or seams that need re-stitching, and sometimes the idea can be thick and itchy like wool, but there's no reason to give up before you even try. Life is magical, Santana, and I want you to figure that out."

An easy smile and Brittany draws her closer, taking comfort in the way their bodies fit together. Another cool breeze snakes by them, the leaves upon the trees shaking with the changing weather. (The scent of decay never did seem so fresh.) Puck continues to lean, gaze lost somewhere in the fog banks and hidden ponds. A troubled line creases his forehead, but she doesn't dwell on it. Not now.

"You know nothing about me or who I am." They've had this conversation before. Brittany gently cups the side of Santana's face, the muscles twitching beneath her palm. How can anyone think she's evil? This woman, scared of her own self.

(_Sometimes it's better to be someone else_.)

Her smile falters.

"I'm starting to figure that out." She regrets the words the instant she says them. All the panic and fear that had been reeling in Santana moments before comes back in full force as she frantically tries to disentangle herself from the blonde. Nails bite into Brittany's forearms, her creamy flesh welting as they claw their way down. "No—no, Santana! Please—stop! That isn't what I meant!"

Frustration at her own incompetence builds, universe eyes seeming deeper and blacker than ever before. "Will you just—" Finally losing the struggle, Santana bolts, her feet carrying her towards the gardens. Puck, startled, stares after her, his eyes flicking between Brittany and the rapidly retreating form of the smoldering woman. He spits a curse, the venom behind it enough to light the fire under her heels.

_Don't let her be afraid. Even if it feels like you're dying and the world is crumbling all around you. Don't let her be afraid._

She tears after the dark haired woman.

(Somewhere behind thick glass walls, a bell chimes.)

Wet grass clings to her ankles, a seeping chill beginning to work its way into her bones. Soul laid bare, the blonde stumbles through the damp ground, mud and muck attempting to pull her down. (And she wonders if it would be so bad to be swallowed by the Earth. If it would hurt, or if it would be hot at all.) Mist begins to soak through her light dress, her muscles aching and burning, lungs threatening to burst at the ferocity of her sprint.

"_Will you just listen to me?_" Brittany screams over the rushing wind. It leaves her winded, bright, white splotches burned into her eyes. A sense of wooziness collapses her joints, her knees knocking harshly into the ground. The grass stings, her wrist throbbing, newly sealed flesh threatening to rend itself open again. A rogue rock spikes through the heels of her hand, discomfort traveling up through her arm and curling around her shoulder.

Gritting her teeth, the blonde gathers herself up and presses forward. She can hear the sound of crashing footsteps and she assumes Puck is hot on her trail. But she doesn't care about him. She doesn't pay him any mind. A sickly heat begins to pulse along her palm, but she continues to pick up her pace. Why does this have to be so difficult? Brittany Pierce never was one for cussing, but _shit_.

It's only when she gets to that yellow greenhouse where she manages to catch her. And Santana is standing at the back end, her hand pressed firmly against the glass, her face a grim mask, staring deeply into the reflection warped by imperfections and rivulets of water. Her chest heaves, hair wild and disheveled, red lips parted and twisted into a grimace.

With Santana finally standing still, feet rooted to the very ground and Brittany standing no more than five feet away from her, the words she wanted to say flee. Hot anger still burns her chest, so with a long, hissing sigh, the blonde slams her back into the glass panes and slides down, a smear of mud lightly coating the already disgusting windows. Holding her hand out, she glances at the lodged rock, her puckered flesh bruising and bleeding. Carefully, she pinches the little offender and rips it out of her palm, relief instant. Although the throbbing doesn't help. She throws it as far as she is able, ignoring the way chocolate eyes watch her.

(Because Santana is: the witness.)

Neither of them move for several minutes, stormy blue eyes made brighter in the wake of lightning. (Santana doesn't think anything could be as electric.) It's just them and the rhythmic pounding of her heart accompanied by the snaking tendrils of their breath. Clenching her fists tightly, she finally turns her gaze and locks it with Santana's. There is anger swimming there like a sludge-brown fish, darting within the pool of her iris.

"Don't you _ever_ run away from me, Santana." She's being demanding and selfish and forceful, but she can't help it. Taken aback by her tone, Santana shrinks and Brittany, for a split second, thinks she might bolt again. A light drizzle starts (and Brittany forgets what the sun feels like). Fingers, cool as death, wrap around her rapidly beating heart, spindles of ice slipping down her throat.

"It's okay to be scared," she eases, this time with more warmth in her voice. The muscles around Santana's eyes begin to relax. "I'm scared all the time, and I worry that I'm never going to be able to leave, that I've done something wrong, said something weird, laughed at things not real—who's to say what's real and what isn't, since you'd think if I can see it, it's real to me and it's all so confusing—but that's not the point. The point is that it's okay. I'm okay because it's okay. I haven't figured out what the 'it' is yet, but whatever it is, it doesn't matter because it's going to make it in the long run. But if I let fear control me, then what? I've never been good at making people listen. A lot of them think I'm stupid; the doctors think I'm hearing voices; Simon uses me—and they don't think I understand?

"I hate this place, Santana. There are eyes and scars and I don't even know what the date is anymore. I've waited and waited and waited for Simon to come and take me home, but I keep getting older and he keeps getting further. I _can't _leave this place and that makes me feel like I'm being held underwater." Another silence falls between them, Santana wetting her lips with her tongue. A shiver sets her exposed flesh alight with goosebumps. The tension spanning between infinity and universe is nearly palpable.

"Why do you care for him, Britt?" Santana finally asks, her anger flaring. The struggle to force out the question teases at the corners of dark eyes. Giving Santana the smile reserved only for her, Brittany shrugs her shoulders, reaching her hand out so her finger tips graze down a caramel shin.

"Who?"

"_Simon_," she hisses, clenching her fists at her sides. She spits his name as if it's sullied. (Brittany decides it probably is.) Her hip burns.

"He's angry and alone and needs someone to hate. I'm pretty easy to hate, I say stupid things all the t—"

"You do not deserve that." Santana's eyes are hard, the anger stealing along her jaw in tumultuous twitches.

"I am what people need me to be," she replies with an easy shrug.

"So, if he were to drive up in his fancy car, surrounded by his suits and demand you perform your wifely duties, you'd do it?" Brittany ceases her caresses, face going blank. The jealousy ripping through Santana's iris doesn't go unnoticed.

"I wouldn't."

"You're his wife, Brittany, he would expect it of you."

"I lost my ring." She shrugs her shoulders.

"That doesn't mean," Santana stops herself midsentence, her eyes narrowing. "That doesn't mean he doesn't own you."

"Sure it does."

"I don't think that's how it works. You can always buy a new ring."

"Why would he, when the woman attached to it is placed in a shoebox far away in some dark attic? That's wasted money, especially when that woman tends to 'leave' things in the pond—really, I just threw it though. Oscar looked hungry." That mischievous quirk draws against her lips and she can't help the way her blue eyes flash. She resumes her ministrations upon Santana's leg.

"Cheap bastard," Santana growls, but Brittany loves the way her skin is coloring. They sit in a comfortable silence for another couple minutes, her eyes raking over the way the other woman stands, the way her lips continue to press down into a grimace and the way one hip juts out at just the right angle. To most, the woman would be intimidating, but Brittany just finds her endearing.

"When I was a little girl, mama used to sit me down and teach me how to draw. I always thought it was boring but she said that painting is as close to people as we can get without being inside of their heads." She makes another pass, tickling Santana just below her knee. Pupils quickly dilate, but Brittany continues on at a leisurely pace.

"I always thought that a psychic would make the best kind of drawer, since then they would be the best artists in the world _and_ would have magic powers to help them in everyday life—like peeling carrots. Hate it when the outsides stick to your fingers and the knife gets all juicy and slippery—anyway. I've been waiting to paint you my whole life, Santana; I just didn't know it until you showed up smoldering in that pretty red dress." She trails her index finger slowly down her shin again, the pull on her heart beginning to become unbearable.

The light patter of raindrops upon glass composes a tango for chocolate colored eyes and universe ravines. A pool of water is forming, her bones and body shaking with cold, but her heart pumping heat through her cheeks, a brilliant pink blossom creeping there.

Santana crosses her arms, her eyes ripping away, her shoulders slouching. Worry passes as a twitch of her little finger before she sinks down to her knees, grabbing Brittany's injured hand (the blood has stopped pooling, but mud still cakes it). Dark eyes hooded beneath thick eyelashes, she draws Brittany's palm to her lips, soft flesh soothing fresh scrapes. Instinctively, the blonde's fist closes around dirt, the firestorm from Santana's eyes spreading through her stomach, consuming her nerves, fogging her mind.

It's instantaneous.

(Because Santana is: _it_.)

"My name is Santana Lopez," she speaks her voice thick with smoke. It sends a shudder through her body. "My grandfather is Atilio 'The Spaniard' Lopez, a wealthy and dangerous gangster who specializes in gun running and smuggling." She drops another kiss, this time a little closer to her wrist. Brittany attempts to focus but finds her hearing fractured into droplets of rain. "I've personally killed forty nine men, three women and one dog—accidentally." She feels like she should be upset, but all she can focus on is dark lips burning a trail along her arm. "My favorite color is red and I don't believe in happily-ever-afters." Teeth nip lightly at the soft underside of the blonde's arm. She wants to argue, but instead lets out a soft whine.

"Sometimes, they call me _la amante del Diablo_. I am the second in line to take up the business after my father." Trembling fingers caress their way up her arm, Santana briefly pausing upon the crook of her elbow, landing a soft kiss there for good measure. If Brittany had been standing, she's certain her knees would have buckled. "I've had sex with one man and five women." She's kissing and murmuring up a creamy bicep now, hands firmly planting themselves on either side of Brittany's hips.

"And I've only ever loved one person."

* * *

This can't be happening.

This, literally, can't be happening.

Heels sinking deep into the mud, Quinn feels her stomach twist, a phantom gunshot ringing dead in her ears. Her lips a tight, thin line, she swallows her scream of frustration. Color drains from her face, her back slamming back into the side of the greenhouse, hazel eyes staring hard at the institute.

Just what the fuck was she going to do now?

Puck is standing next to her, his body pressed tight to the corner like a child trying to sneak a peek at their Christmas presents. He may be elated about this, but she sure as shit isn't. He mouths something she doesn't quite catch over his shoulders, his cheeks pink and ruddy and that boyish side of him presents itself to her. (If Quinn didn't know any better, she might even think he was a little charming.)

She can't let this keep on.

But how does he expect her to do this? Why does it always have to be her? Why does it always have to be Brittany? Fists tight, bitterness crops up on the back of her throat, her stomach twisting into a pit of vipers. _He _should be the one playing Brutus in this sickening ode. Since when did he rely upon her for such things?

_Since always_.

A shiver strikes through her and Quinn worries that her bones rattle. The constant sound of blood whooshing in her ears has her head spinning. (And it's in this moment she realizes…)

"They'll catch their death," her voice says, but she doesn't recall ever willing the words to lift from her lips. Eyebrows crinkled, Puck tosses her another glance over his shoulder. "B-Brittany's in nothing more than a spring dress and Santana—" her voice cracks. His smile begins to fade.

What is she going to do?

Gathering her bottom lip between her teeth, Quinn bites down. It's the sting that reminds her. Liquid hazel hardens and Puck turns to face her, his own eyes searching. She shakes her head, motioning towards them, fire in the way she moves. Her fingers shake, Puck taking a step towards her.

"Don't. Don't you _dare _come near me," she hisses, not bothering to lower her voice. Survival drags along her ribs and Quinn takes a step back. Her heel sinks further into the mud, the faint _shuck_ of stubborn ground loud enough to be heard over the wind, rain and pounding of her heart. (She smells cinnamon and vanilla warping along bursting tendrils.)

"Me? What did _I_ do?" Puck asks, his face scrunching up in offense.

"You _let_ her be that way!"

"I ain't let nobody be anythin'!" He squints, raising his eyes towards the sky as he tries to sort out what he just said. Quinn rolls her eyes before speaking, her arms crossed tightly around her midsection.

"Try thinking before you open your mouth, for once," she snorts.

"Wait, who're we talkin' 'bout?"

"_Santana_, you dolt."

Puck lets out a barking laugh, his shoulders rolling with the thunder in his voice. "Ya think I control what she does?" Grimacing, the honey blonde nurse cuts her eyes away, glaring as hard as she can at the horizon. (It's one or the other, there's never any in between.) "She does what she damn well pleases."

"She's going to get us all _killed_!" Quinn yells, eyes hard as resin as they snap back. Puck's nostrils flare, his eyes taking on a wild edge.

"There somethin' you know that we don't?" He takes a step towards her, voice low. The boy from earlier is gone, replaced by the man with a devilish gleam in his eye. She strains her ears, searching for any way out. Anyway at all. But there isn't. Because Simon hangs over her like a spider and she finds that her very voice is thread through with silken web.

"Do you want to see Brittany killed? At this point, it's only Santana he's gunning for, she's still _safe_." Motioning her head towards where she knows the two are probably listening in (so what, let them), Quinn braces herself against the rain. A chill sweeps through her, and she knows it has nothing to do with the cold.

"He kills Santana, he'll start a whole new war, 'n this one won't be fought with honor, neither," Puck warns. (_"Let's play a game, Q."_)

"If you don't think he doesn't know that, then you know far less about my cousin than I thought. He's started wars over pettier things," she replies. The sky hangs dark, the burning eyes of the sun blanketed by thick clouds. Why is she the bad guy?

_What if I wasn't_.

A dangerous thought and Quinn draws her arms in tighter. (How do you live life in two worlds simultaneously?) Puck continues to stare at her and she wants to see the worry creep into his eyes. Because that would be enough. There is no love lost between her and Santana, but the way blue eyes sparkle? How can she rip that out?

"I thought you was different, Q," Puck states, his shoulders a massive pull of muscle and dark sinew. His muscles twitch, his body suddenly facing away from her.

"How're two women going to survive anyway, Puck? Off the welfare of a whore-humping, gangster man? Don't make me laugh," she shakes her head. "We both know that Atilio would never stand for it and, by proxy, the rest of the family. They have targets the size of Rhode Island upon their backs if we allow this to happen."

"What a surprise, Nurse Hatchet has a heart after all." Santana stands just behind Puck, dark eyes made darker by what Quinn hopes is anger. (_"It's quite simple really."_)

"Don't you start, Santana," she snaps.

"Oh no, continue, I'd really like to hear what you have to say. Don't let me stop you." Santana gestures easily, a dark scowl upon her face.

"What you're doing puts not only your life at risk, but Brittany's as well. You're being incredibly selfish by—"

"You think I don't _know _that? You think I didn't try to _stop_? I live a dangerous life, Quinn, and I wouldn't want to put that on anyone, least of all her, but don't make it sound like I have a choice in the matter. Don't make it sound like _I'm_ the cause for all the horrible shit in the world. I've done bad things, but I'm still at least human." Santana has pushed her way by Puck, her finger now merely inches away from the honey blonde's nose. (_"Have you ever played roulette?"_) Collecting her thoughts, Quinn allows her words to settle around them before replying.

"Are you?"

"Don't be specific, Quinn. It very well might kill you."

"Are you human, Santana Lopez?" Hazel eyes hard, she stares straight into the infinite abyss of blackened eyes. And Quinn, for a second, sees the devil that crawls beneath the surface, the twitch along the jaw, and the tightening of fingers. But maybe demons possess them all. _Except Brittany_.

"What kind of a stupid question is that?"

"Because a _human_ wouldn't paint a large _'x'_ on the back of the person they so called loved. You're too scared to let her go. You've known her for a month and already you've pulled the one good thing in this place down into your puddle of self-loathing. You're going to kill her, Santana. Can you deal with her blood on your hands?"

"What about you, Quinn? You pretend that you know her, but here you are, signing her life away to a man that would lock her away in a closet. You're just as responsible for her blood as I am. So don't preach to the choir and pretend like you're some untouchable, infallible being, because you're _not_. If you were, you would've gotten her out months ago before any of this could have happened." Standing toe-to-toe with the dark haired devil, Quinn feels the foundations of everything shift. (_"Game of chance, nasty habit of being unpredictable."_)

"I'm trying to protect her!"

"No, you're trying to guard her, there is a _difference_."

Silence passes between them and Quinn thinks of a white horse with rust colored stains. Of a windmill, burning to ashes and the way smoke lifts from discharged rifles. The same smoke settles in the iris of Santana and the honey blonde nurse shakes her head. Because behind her, universe eyes search the scene, a pained frown upon her face, limbs shaking, blood twisting around her fingers like a macabre ring.

(A fitting band for a fitting union.)

"Have either of you two idiots ever thought ta ask Bluebell what she wants?" Puck is facing them again, Brittany at his side. Not one to ever back down, Quinn takes in a short breath, her face a mask of solid steel.

"I'm assuming that whatever she wants doesn't involve dying, Puck. And this," Quinn motions between the two women. "Is one sure way to die."

"I'd rather die doing this than die with a pencil in my wrist." Brittany speaks and the nurse finds her throat closing.

"Sugar—"

"People have told me all my life what I can and can't do."

"Brittany, I—"

"Except for Santana. She listens to me, Quinn. She _actually_ listens to what I have to say, and sure, I don't always say the smartest things, and sometimes I forget how to tie my shoes or brush my hair and wake up in beds I don't remember falling asleep in, but she doesn't tell me that I'm sick, or think any less of me." Blue eyes search for dark irises and Quinn feels her insides crumble. (_"High stakes for high winnings, don't you think it's appropriate?"_) Ghosted fingers press into the side of her face, a long, silver rod reflected briefly in a pupil. "How can something so good and warm and fluffy and so very robe-like be wrong?"

Another beat and Quinn locks eyes with Brittany. "This is your answer then?" the nurse asks, her voice weak.

"Did you ask a question?" Brittany tilts her head, her attention once again focused on the honey blonde. Quinn fights the urge to laugh at the innocence she projects. Because it's all so perfect. All so innocently perfect. Simon be damned.

She doesn't answer Brittany before she turns on her heel and begins making her way back towards the house. Her skin is on fire, rain driving straight to her bones. Lips set in grim determination, Quinn Fabray finally crosses the line.

* * *

The cold eventually wins over and she finds that another one of her shirts has been ruined. Brittany holds onto her hand, their fingers laced within one another, Santana relishing the way her heart pulses inside of her chest. It's warm and soft and all smiles. Because when blue eyes find her own, it's under the guise of a secret only for them. A hidden, ghosted smile and digits pressing into her muscles, she finds her stomach clenching with the aftershocks of their heated kiss.

Fuck Quinn.

That bitch doesn't know anything. She should just mind her own business instead of sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. But there is something there within those hazel eyes. Something recognizable and it bugs her. Tickling at the back of her mind. Licking like the words of a long dead relative. _He knows_, it whispers and Santana can't help but think about the nurse's words.

She is selfish.

But can anyone fault her for that?

It's not like she would force Brittany into this life. It's not like she expects the blonde to stay. (How does light thrive in the presence of darkness, after all?) But she should go. Staring hard at Puck's back, she knows he'll do as she asked. Even if he didn't promise her, there is an honor there, a code he lives by that she knows he won't break. And it may be one filled with fleas and diseased hookers, but it's a code all the same.

A chill strikes her through and she is briefly reminded of a frozen locker and the glaring harshness of a white porcelain bath tub. Her heart spasms for the briefest of instances before instinct takes over and she presses herself closer to Brittany, creamy skin cool to the touch. The mud makes their progress slow through the grounds, frozen limbs making each step send jolts of white hot (Brittany wonders if it's actually ice cold) prickles careening through distressed nerves.

When they reach the porch, Santana has half a mind to collapse upon the old wood and pray to whatever higher beings there may be. Brittany's hand in hers stops her however. Fingers tremble between her own, the beautiful red coloring usually dancing along her flesh replaced by a harsh burn from the wind. The tip of her nose is bright pink.

"You're cold," Santana says, lamely. Baby blues draw their attention to her and Brittany shrugs. When she stares hard enough, she can see the way her lips jump. Puck pushes the door open motioning towards the warmth of inside and Santana nods her head, attempting to disengage her hand from her beautiful blonde captor.

Brittany closes her fist tighter, her other hand clamping down upon Santana's wrist. In this moment, with blue eyes so dark they resemble midnight, she feels her heart explode. Her skin is suddenly a furnace, melting the ice that had begun to pump through her veins, heating the millions of needles pricking into her flesh. Her breath, robbed straight from her lungs, feeds into the nebulas swirling, little pockets of forever glinting with a glimmer of everything.

Santana's head swims.

But she doesn't try to disentangle their hands again.

They meet no one on their short journey towards their shared cell, Puck opening the door for them once again. A darkness has crossed over his eyes, making him look more tired and more aged than ever before. A hundred peeling mouths gape, the edges of the hallways lined with the silk of spiders, a must weighed down by the constant rain.

_What time is it_? They ask.

And Santana doesn't know. Because you can't tell the time by the darkness of the clouds, just like you can't tell the time by the roots of a tree. Unease settles between her shoulders, her stomach a nervous, twisted knot. She stares at the threshold, Brittany on her arm and Santana suddenly feels very timid. The doorway opens into another world, the scar in the window peering sadly down at her, the eyes, melted into the wall, watching.

Because they are always there and she will always be watched and there will never be a time when she is not in danger. (She remembers rubber stoppers and rattling words and a macabre prayer offered to the ceiling.) The muscles in her back begin a chaotic wave of twitches, moving down her body until it ends in her toe.

Blue eyes burn into the side of her face, and all Santana can do is turn away for fear of her expression somehow telling her secret. (She doesn't see the way Brittany's face falls or the way her lips move to say something.) She steps through the doorway, refusing to meet the other woman's eye, a sad smile upon her face. Santana Lopez doesn't answer to anyone. But right now, she's _just_ Santana and she is scared and doesn't know what to make of all this.

"I'll be back," Puck says before securing the door, the sound of the tumbler turning like a nail in a coffin.

Santana's heart hammers.

Brittany continues to cling to her arm, the soft _drip, drip, drip_ of their soaked clothing slowly making a pool upon the floor. (She's reminded of moonlight slivers and a face painted in silver, blue eyes staring, lips curled into curiosity.) She worries that her heart might hammer straight through her chest.

Goosebumps prickle along the back of her neck, a couple of moments seeping by until Brittany spins her so that they face one another. Peering up into universe eyes, Santana finds herself drowning within the effervescent tides that crash along the shore of one Brittany Pierce. Heart bursting with adoration, she drops her gaze, burning holes straight to the core of the world.

"You are human, you know," Brittany finally says, eager to break the silence.

"Sometimes I wonder," Santana sighs.

"I would know if you weren't human." She nods sagely, an easy smile upon her lips. Those beautiful, enticing lips. Santana begins to stare, fascinated by the way words tip from between them.

"How?" Silence permeates between them again. Santana's throat begins to close the longer she stares at the blonde's lips. Her mouth twists to the side and she knows the distant look in her eye has cropped up.

"I would just know," she says with a shrug.

"That's reassuring."

"No one else can be you, Santana," Brittany's voice drops in pitch, her tongue rolling nicely in her mouth. "And even if there are things that you've done that you're not proud of, even if you lose the human-you along the way, I'll be here to always bring you back. I'm not going anywhere." Said with bitterness, a twitch pulls at Brittany's nose.

"She stared into my eyes as she died, Britt. And I did nothing," her voice cracks, her chest nearly shattering.

"Then next time you'll do better, Santana. It doesn't make you a bad person. Things happen and you can't let them control you. You have to learn to roll with the ocean and accept that you're a good person because I already have." She's certain that the meaning of her statement is lost upon the blonde, but she doesn't get the chance to clarify before Brittany is speaking again. "Besides, my opinion is the only one that counts and what I say goes. So, stop worrying about it."

"Don't you mean punches?"

"…What?"

"Roll with the punches?"

"Punches don't roll, silly," she laughs lightly, squeezing her hand tighter.

"You're a genius, Britt," Santana sighs. Another silence falls around them, both sets of eyes staring out the window, raindrops smashing against glass in a rhythmic torrent, grey clouds suffocating the sun. Vanilla breath feeds across her flesh, heat blistering along her cheeks, universe eyes dark and seeking. Gathering her bottom lip into her mouth, she begins to chew.

"Don't do that." Brittany's voice is throaty and thick, coaxing the serpent coiled tightly inside. It's a sudden change from her usual tone and completely catches Santana unawares. She bites down harder. Her eyes betray her desires as they rove. Over the rise of her hip, along the curve of her side, clinging to the suppleness of her chest, nipples hardened by the cold. The palms of her hand ache to press against them.

A thumb strokes across her gathered lip, lightning trails left buzzing along her skin. Breath hitching, she instinctively jerks back because she can't be held responsible. There is nothing to stop her now. Nothing holding her back and like a demon, Desire perches upon her shoulders, whispering words and ideas. What if Brittany doesn't understand? What if there has been some huge misunderstanding? What if? What if? Wh—

A coy smile plays at the corner of the blonde's lips, her pupils nearly drowning out the universe. It's a black hole and Santana is stuck. Breath fans out across her face, a thumb stroking along her lips again this time Brittany leaning in close, her nose brushing against Santana's. Releasing her lip, she's rewarded with a light giggle.

_It's okay_. Desire whispers.

But what if it isn't?

And Puck will be right back. And what if someone were to come in? There are a lot of things she can't expect. A lot of things she can't plan for.

Her thoughts are interrupted by lips, fingers burning trails into the side of her face, tracing the contours of her cheeks to slip down and run along her jaw. Her flesh prickles at the lingering trace, throat suddenly extremely dry, need cropping up and fueling everything that she is. Resolved, she grips Brittany by the hips, drunk in the way creamy lips slip against hers into a knowing smile. Fire grows higher, consuming her nerves, Brittany pressed flush against her, and she can feel those hardened nubs upon her chest and it tears a visceral groan straight from her throat.

She tilts her head up just a little, hoping Brittany doesn't notice the way her fingers shake. (She does.) Seeing this as an invitation, a hot mouth presses to her chin, a tongue slipping out to taste her flesh, curving its way down her jaw and trailing to her throat where warm lips finally stop and plant. Teeth graze lightly and she can't help but pull the woman closer, the weight of Desire making her knees tremble.

A fog begins to cloud her mind, her shoulders burning, the dampness of her clothing uncomfortable. A sharp throb spikes to her center and Santana can't help the way her eyes lid or the way she leans back further, Brittany's strong arms holding her in a near fantastic bend. And for the briefest of moments, she feels like a dancer. With one leg lifted off of the ground, toe pointed towards the far wall, dark hair tumbling, color spiking through her cheeks.

(Another demon sits in the corner of the room, wolfish eyes piercing.)

A tongue swirls against her caramel skin and Santana is lost in the whirlpool, Brittany slowly guiding them towards Santana's bed behind her. With Brittany taking one step back for every step she takes forward, she is once again reminded of a dance. The room moves in a wave, the window pulsing, the skeletal branches of the tree outside lightly tapping the window. It grinds against her nerves, Desire taking over rational thought. How could this be bad? Why is this bad?

What was she worried about to begin with?

He sits upon her chest, ripping at her pounding heart with sharp claws, darkness twisting tightly up and around her spinal column until it reaches the base of her skull where it whispers. _It has to be perfect_, she wills to herself. _It has to be perfect, or else everything else will fall apart_. Brittany stands with her calves pressed against Santana's bed, her muscles tight. She withdraws her lips with an audible smack, and she instantly misses them. Hands still around her waist, she peers into mischievous midnight eyes, Brittany slowly beginning to lower herself.

Santana catches her before she has a chance to get down all the way, however. "No," she rasps, her own voice thick and full of dark smoke. Desire licks along her thighs and buzzes at her lips. She needs to be selfish. Just this once.

"Why?" Worry passes through her pupil, which shrinks just in the slightest.

"If I start this, Brittany," Santana struggles out. "I will not be able to stop." A smile stretches across the blonde's face and Santana finds herself melting. _There is your answer_, Desire says. And she twirls them around so that her calves are now pressing into the bed. Not expecting the sudden movement, Santana clings to the way Brittany's eyes widen in surprise.

Control.

Control. She is in control. Santana has to keep reminding herself of that as she crushes her mouth to Brittany's, her hands trailing from wet clothing to the thrumming flesh of her neck. She can feel the blonde's heart there, pumping madly against the palm of her hand and for the first time since she can remember, she thinks _Life is magical._

She parts her lips, urging her more-than-willing partner to do the same, seeking entrance to tangle with the soft velvet of Brittany's tongue. A shiver rips through her, static charges exploding through her muscles as their mouths tangle, a soft sigh caught in Brittany's throat feeding straight to her. It's everything. Running her fingers along a burning scalp, she drags her nails. And is rewarded with another sigh.

Aching with want, Santana pulls her lips back, tugging Brittany's head back gently, exposing the flesh of her neck. Eager to taste there, she presses her lips to the pulse point, wrapped in the scent of vanilla and sunshine and rain. Right hand wound in hair, the left drives a blazing trail down an angled clavicle, drowning the angry thoughts before they have time to grow. With trembling hands, she gently cups Brittany's breast, a hardened nub running along her palm nearly piercing straight through all of her nerves. Slowly, she slides her finger over it, giving it a small flick.

Brittany gasps, her body bucking.

Slowly, Santana begins to sink to the bed, her lips trailing down the blonde's sternum, slightly annoyed at the clothing still present. Taut stomach muscles quiver with strain against her lips as she sits upon the edge of the bed, her legs still firmly planted upon the cool tiles. Santana gently winds her hands around Brittany's waist to rest upon her backside, urging her forward. She guides the blonde carefully as she climbs atop her lap, her knees bracketing Santana's hips. Eager to oblige, Brittany peers down at her dark lover, fingers running rough rivers through her hair, her thighs quivering against Santana's sides.

And she can feel her warmth. The pulsing center, the way her sweet scent presses insistently into Santana's stomach. Swallowing her own groan, she runs her hands up Brittany's legs, pooling the material of her dress up and around her waist. Flesh soft, Santana feels the rise of a scar high upon her thigh, anger almost quick to swallow her. But another heated kiss, deep and wanting, has her forgetting all over again.

Urgency throws caution to the wind, Santana suddenly all too aware of the many layers still hindering her movements. Grunting, she urges Brittany's dress up higher, the blonde raising her arms over her head. With a bit of resistance, she peels the material free from the woman, falling into the perfect plane of her tight stomach and the way her warm skin burns through her own clothing. Frantic fingers begin working at the collar of her blouse, Brittany fumbling in her mad insistence to remove the clothing from Santana. Exasperated with the goddamn buttons, pale fingers still and wrench open the material.

They land like mortars upon the tiles. Each with a heavy thud. Each a reminder.

"H-hey," Santana whines, pulling back from the kiss.

"Shhh," Brittany replies.

It was ruined anyway.

With her shirt now open, Brittany smoothes her hands over a caramel chest, catching the edges of her lingerie with trembling fingers. Chest filling with want, Santana inhales sharply, her fingers clawing at the clasp of Brittany's bra, the silky material slipping beneath her fingers multiple times before she finally manages to get it off. Hesitance forgotten, Brittany allows the material to slip down her arms, pooling at her chest. Annoyed, she shrugs it off, tossing it to the floor to be retrieved at a later time.

Dark eyes rove to her chest, the perfect rise of her breast, the pink, hardened nipple, the valley between them, it has Santana's mouth dry. Itching to feel everything Brittany, the dark haired Latina grips the woman by the waist and twists them both to the right, the blonde's back hitting the mattress with a harsh thump. Santana lands with her hands on either side of the blonde, her fingers splayed wide against the rough blanket. With a predatory look, Santana dips her lips into the valley of her chest, her tongue touching lightly there. Brittany's legs lock behind her, her hips twitching. _Make her feel_, Desire whispers.

Santana locks her mouth around a hardened nipple, her tongue swirling against it in tight, controlled movements, Brittany's back arching up into her. "Ngh…" The grunt shocks her, her teeth scrapping against her nipple as a result. Another, louder, grunt echoes and has Brittany's hips grinding up into her, seeking the friction. Seeking any sort of relief.

Releasing the nipple, Santana trails her left hand down Brittany's stomach, her index circling her navel once before she comes to the hem of the last little bit of clothing. And Santana doesn't think she's seen anything more beautiful than Brittany looks now. The way her painted face is red, her lips swollen, eyes as black as midnight and her jaw set tight with frustration. It nearly robs her before the blonde lets out a whine, her hips grinding once again.

Creamy fingers run sporadic lines across her exposed chest, running down her arms and pulling her thoroughly ruined blouse with them. (Somewhere beneath a rain soaked window, gravel crumbles.) Santana allows it to be tossed aside, her own hand gently, teasingly trailing a finger against the front of the silken material, fingers dipping lower and lower until she is met with the edge of a burning heat. With her fingertip, nail scraping, slowly she draws a light line along Brittany's ready folds, the material wet with want.

"San!" Brittany gasps, the rest of her name lost somewhere within the torrents of her rapidly racing mind. Her hips cant hard up into her hand. She can feel the material push around her, a hard nub pulsing against her finger. And Santana can't take it anymore. Shuffling herself and the blonde around, she all but rips the last remaining piece of material from her body, then straddles the blonde's leg, her knee pressed firmly into Brittany's heat. Because she needs this to be perfect. She needs to give this to her.

Dark eyes peer down, the coil within Santana wound so tight, she's scared it'll burst any moment. Shaky breaths pull from Brittany's rose colored lips, her eyes lidded half way, her hands resting upon Santana's sides. (When she stares down at her like this, Santana is reminded of Simon. Her eyes trace a long scar slashed across her stomach.)

"S-Santana," She groans, her voice thick and raspy. She rubs against her knee and Santana is graced with a sharp moan. It rocks her foundations, her own hips pressing down into Brittany's thigh, the friction she finds there spiking straight through her stomach, ending in a white blaze at her finger tips.

She pulls her knee away from Brittany, her fingers quickly finding those folds again, the pad of her finger starting in slow, flicking movements around that little nub. Upon contact, Brittany expels a breath, her nails dragging harshly against caramel skin, Santana quickly working the blonde into a frenzy. But before she can fall apart, she pulls away, tight muscles quivering against her.

She eases into Brittany's entrance, burying her fingers deep, relishing the way she moves around her. The way she quivers and squirms. The way a sheen of sweat prickles along her skin. And it's perfect. Starting at a slow pace, Santana quickly works her way up, adding a second finger to the first, burying herself deep and curling her fingers upon exit to attempt to find all of those spots she knows the blonde is bound to have.

Her own arousal, while maddening, is intensified when Brittany arcs straight up into her, fingers curled tightly into her flesh. They'll leave marks, but she doesn't mind. If it's Brittany, she'll never mind. She feels her clench once, tight and hard around her fingers and knows she's about to hit her peak.

Twice and Brittany is gasping her name.

Three times and the tumbler of the door turns. And all at once, Santana attempts to wrench herself free, arousal forgotten. But they are a mass of locked limbs and the door is well oiled. _Please be Puck. Please be Puck. _It's the only thing she can think, her head craning towards the door.

Harsh light pools into the room and there he stands, his face a blanketed mask of calm rage. Eyes cool as steel and Quinn stands behind him, her hazel eyes wide with shock, her hand upon his arm. An angry red mark mars her cheek.

"Hello, sugarpie. Did you miss me?"

(True darkness and his name is Simon.)

And Santana can already taste the bullet.


	11. Falling Stars

**Author's Note: **Okay, so I know I'm a little late, but I really needed to take a week off for my own mental health. Consider this as a mid-season break, kinda. Where there's that awful cliffhanger and you just want to punch people in the throat. Yeah. If you haven't already, you should check out the one shot I wrote for **Swinging Cloud's **DUBSPOOK Halloween project. It's called _Afterimage_, and honestly, I'm pretty proud of it. So read it (or don't, whatever).

Thanks to all those who have read and followed the story thus far and put up with my shenanigans. I know I can be ridiculous at times, and I apologize for that. Kinda. You guys are all my favorites and your words really help pull me through each and every chapter. So /hearts to all of you. And hearts to everyone that is just joining us and lurking and all that jazz. If you've made it this far, I commend you. You are a hero. /more hearts

Lastly, since I know you guys are dying, I need to give a _huge_ thanks to my new beta Lyrium (**squintyoureyes**). She's been the best and the toughest trooper known to man. Cloud still helps me (moral support-hooya), but she's basically working herself to death and I didn't want to kill her more than necessary. And since Lyrium is basically a super hero, my updates are probably going to be coming slower. She has a crazy busy life curing things and shit. So. That's a thing. But we'll be hard at work for you all!

And if you ever want to know the status of something, you can still always follow me on tumblr. That's a thing that happens. Anyway, on with the show. I hope you all enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Falling Stars**

_Then the sudden smell of burning flesh_

He smiles, that same old smile, the pulse in his throat beating hard and steady. Rain-washed light filters into the small room, the grey in his eyes refracted and broken with a thousand shadows. The words slither along Santana's flesh, wiggling deep within the recesses of her ears, clawing their way up her spine and she can't help but remember pooling yellow.

"Please," he motions with his hand, "continue."

But she is dumbstruck. How can he be here? Crossing the room in three easy strides, Simon leans against the wall, a melted face at his shoulder, whispering secrets. Telling him of things said in confidence, in secret. Between hooded eyes and sleepless nights. And Santana knows. Brittany shifts beneath her, an unreadable expression dashed across her face. The world has stopped spinning, and all eyes are watching.

"Simon," Brittany says, her voice carefully accented with that same aloofness often found. It's eerie the way an easy smile stretches across her lips, her eyes dimming under the eclipse that is Simon. It's a smile all for him. All for him and not for her. And that does something to Santana. To think that he has something that's his. Something she can never have. She grinds her teeth hard. "I watched the window for you, but you never came. Is Tubbs in trouble again?" (Brittany's heart hammers in her chest and she wonders, can he catch something so quick?)

"What, no kiss, sugarpie? Didn't you miss me?" His eyes are humorless. "And all you can think about is that damn _cat_."

"Is it my birthday, then?" she evades. Santana stares down at her and can't tell if she's seriously asking because she doesn't know or if she's being clever, again. Simon's barking laugh is condescending, striking harshly against the side of her face. Santana grips the blankets hard.

"No, you beautiful cunt. It's not your fucking birthday." He tosses his head towards the doorway. "Do you see this, Q? She can't even remember anymore, fascinating." In profile, Quinn is staring hard at him, eyes narrowed.

"Quite," her voice is tight with strain.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you," Santana snaps.

"Oh, please do try, Santi. Throw your naked body against me so perhaps I can finally teach you the lesson you've long since been overdo for. Brittany certainly enjoyed it, after all."

Eyebrows knit tightly, she can taste the thunderheads on her tongue, rolling across the valley of her mouth, traveling to the painful hammering in her chest. She scrambles to wrench the blanket free from beneath Brittany's prostrate form, anger in her movements. She is a body without a name (and Simon is staring at his fingers, splaying them in a wide web). There is nothing to weather the storm—nothing to break the sleet driving like needles straight through flesh and tainting the white of bone.

"I quite like reading."

"Not that kind of lesson, sugar," Quinn replies quickly before he has a chance to interject. Santana's heart twists at the softness there. What is her problem? She glances at Quinn again, hazel eyes locking with her own and she can't help but feel a little sorry for her. It only fuels her anger. She, of all people, doesn't deserve her pity.

"What kind of lesson doesn't have reading?"

Brittany stills Santana's attempts, a palm sliding along the bare expanse of her forearm. She presses her back, until she is sitting upon her haunches, venom beginning to eat away at her insides. Is this what she wants? Brittany sits up, her hand traveling to rest upon her own. Her palm is cool, slipping against her flesh, belying a frantic anxiety. She studies her face hard, Santana's resolve hardening with each inconsistency she finds. There's a quiver at the corner of her lip. A dip between her eyebrows. A bright scar folding its way along her iris.

"You'll confuse yourself into an early grave, dearest, if you don't shut your mouth." Simon speaks around his smile.

"No," Brittany replies easily. "I'm not confused, but maybe you are."

Movement catches Santana's eye, Quinn crossing inside to stand next to Simon, her eyes tracing the grout in the tiles as if she reads whispers made tangible. She reminds her of a dog. Tail between her legs. The _bitch_ that she is. It's fitting. Quinn's lips are tight and thin, her arms wrapped around her stomach, fingers twitching. She can't even look at them. Santana watches her briefly out of the corner of her eye, her muscles bunching tightly with strain. She'd never felt fealty towards her, but she'd trusted Quinn enough. Enough that the look slashed across her face is as condemning as any gavel.

No. She doesn't get to feel guilt.

With one final tug, the rough material of the blanket slips under the length of Brittany's legs, Santana taking great care to recover what little dignity she can scrounge. She drapes the blanket over Brittany, ignoring her own exposure. Leaning in close, she whispers softly into the veil of blonde hair, her lips pressing to the curve of an ear. "It'll be okay," she whispers.

"Santana, don't," Brittany pleads. She can't see her eyes, but Santana knows that they're stern with her own resolve. She pulls back, pushing herself into a sitting position. Her legs dangle over the side of the bed, exposed flesh prickling with the bored scrutiny of a disinterested man.

The muscle along Simon's jaw twitches and Santana smiles, her lips pulled up into a twisted mockery. A snarl, animalistic in nature, threatens to beat her throat bloody, darkness beginning to curl over her shoulders. Her ears buzz with the ambience of the room, the constant whirring of an old ventilation fan nearly deafening in the silence. Simon levels his gaze, eyebrows raised.

"_Continue_, Santi," he insists one more time. He plunges his hand deep into his pocket, and for a brief moment, she worries he might have more than a billfold hidden there. She doesn't doubt it. Carefully she shifts herself further in front of Brittany, her right hand sliding back to find the low slope of her rising form.

"Is this about the ring?" Brittany chimes. The normalcy in which she addresses the situation beats down upon Santana like a hammer.

"The ring? Stupid girl, what ring?" Simon cuts his eyes dangerously towards Quinn. There's a lifetime of threats there, ones made within the comfort of a lounge, chilled brandy in a crystalline glass.

"How many rings does she _have_?" Quinn replies.

"Are you saying something _happened_, Brittany?" Grey eyes bear down upon her. Santana can read the murder there. His hand twitches, just the slightest of jerks, knuckles curling around an invisible, silver shaft. (What is it they used to say about the Faerie Queen?)

Quinn shifts uncomfortably, Santana's eyebrows knitting tightly as her attention is drawn there. Hellfire licks within her throat, the fingers of the devil raking along her shoulders. Her anger perches atop her, and like Desire, it whispers. The metallic twist of copper floods over her tongue and Santana balls her fists. Her veins writhe, pulsing with the beat of her heart.

This is _her_ fault.

"You _fucking_ cunt," Santana spits, extremities trembling. Hazel eyes snap up to meet hers before Quinn tears them away, her lips set into a grim line. (The truth is…) "How could you do this to _her_?" Santana's voice is low. Words, like acid, burn and pit against the inside of her mouth.

"I—" Quinn opens her mouth to speak, but snaps her jaw shut.

"Now, now, don't be so cross," Simon coos. He loops his hand around Quinn's waist, pulling her close to him. "It's rather unbecoming." She shifts her weight away from him, her face turning in an attempt to be as far away as possible. Santana thinks she can nearly see her heart beating through the white of her uniform. (If it breaks through her chest, will she start to bleed?)

"Cross? Don't insult me," Santana hisses, eyes narrowing. Delicate fingers circle around her wrist, anchoring her to the bed. She glances over her shoulder; the dull lacquer fogging over Brittany's eyes makes her stomach sink. _No_.

"_Finish the whore,_" Simon punctuates, grey eyes hard and roiling with something darker than the heart of hell. Shadows of rain droplets dapple his cheeks.

"Call her that one more time, I dare you," Santana snaps, head whipping back around. Tension sparks, snaking its way through the pores of her skin, her muscles twitching with the strain it provides.

He lets out a light chuckle, his smile nearly ripping his face in two. "Oh Santana, don't be that way. I am a man of integrity." She makes to stand, but Brittany's hand stops her. Her fingers press tight bruises.

"You have about as much integrity as horses asshole, you wife beating son of a bitch!"

"Women need to know their place, you know as well as I do," Simon sighs, his eyes rolling towards the ceiling. His knuckles show white against Quinn's waist. Is she staring at flesh or bone? _Neither_. Because she's certain Simon isn't human. "Brittany," he turns his gaze towards a point over her shoulder. Shifting herself, Santana attempts to block him. (Rain water beads down the window and she thinks she can read the answers within the rivulets before they're washed away by wolf-grey eyes.)

(Somewhere, a heart batters against a rib _cage_.)

"You address _me_," she growls. Anxiety begins to creep along the edges of her anger, her chest tightening.

"Did you like it?" Simon carries on as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Did you like the way she _fucked _you." There is a cool anger tempered within his words. A piercing wail careens down the empty hallway.

"Please don't be angry—I didn't mean to, Quinn was there. I just tripped and it fell and there was nothing I could do, but please—don't be mad anymore, because I just can't—"

"Does it bother you, Simon?" Santana coaxes. A smirk born of rage pulls her lips, her free arm resting nicely in her lap.

"Did you like the way she fucked your broken, damaged cunt? Did she tell you all the things you wanted to hear?" Quinn winces.

"—if you want, I'll train Lord T really well, and I won't say silly things anymore, please Simon—it was an accident—" _Mistake_ and Santana feels the weight of the implication drop upon her shoulders.

(_If you told me you loved me, I'd listen_.)

"You can't even answer the question," Santana says, her voice teetering upon the edge. "Maybe it's you."

"Mollydoll, answer me."

"If you'd listen to me, you'd know that I've been saying, but you never listen, Simon." (Frustration outweighs anxiety.)

"She doesn't have to do what you _say_."

"I'm her husband, Santi, not you. Unless you've spontaneously grown a cock and balls, I'd suggest you stay out of this conversation." He jabs his finger harshly towards her.

"You gave up being her husband the _second_ you married her, do not pretend that you love her _now_." Quinn pulls away from Simon, the words torn from her chest like a thorn. Santana snaps her mouth shut. For the first time, she notices the trembling in her arms.

He levels his gaze.

"Q, surely you don't _mean_ that?" Slowly he withdraws his hand from his pocket, Santana's heart catching in her throat. It comes back empty, fingers curled lightly at his side. (Somehow, she thinks he holds memories within his palm.) But there is something coiling around his shoulders, and she wonders if perhaps the Devil sits there, too.

Quinn's nerve has been stamped, her eyes nervously flicking to his fingers, the ache in her cheek throbbing harder. She narrows her eyes. "You know how I feel."

"That's too bad," he says, turning towards the window. Fixing his stare upon the scar that resides here, Simon reaches up, dragging his finger through the condensation. His eyebrows knit for the briefest of moments, but as a fleeting thought he brushes it away. Pressing his palm flat against the pane, he slides his hand, blotting out the permanence of Brittany. (If a scar is slashed upon another scar, will the first one still be there?)

Santana grips the blanket harder.

"I don't like useless things, Quinn. In fact, I hazard to say that I _abhor_ them." He draws his hand back but continues to stare out the window. The shadows of tree branches break along his face, his wicked grin bright in the dull light. "At least broken things can be repaired." He places his hands upon Quinn's shoulders. "But useless things?" He leans in close to her ear. Santana strains to hear him. "Useless things will always be useless."

Quinn's face steels, the color draining from her cheeks. Carefully, Simon steps back, gently tapping the tip of her nose with his index finger. She doesn't flinch, but Santana watches the muscles along her calves tighten, her wrist developing a tremor as he steps away.

"Now," he turns his attention back towards Santana, his hand moving back into his pocket. "Santi, I'm afraid that if you don't accept my invitation—I've given it twice already, you see—then your business with _my _property is over." He steps forward, extending his hand once again.

It's as if she's being pulled into a dream. Santana cranes her head around, looking dead into the watery eyes of Brittany. Fingers slip from around her wrist, pale lips trembling with strain.

"You _can't_," Santana snaps. She borders upon hysteria.

Brittany doesn't say anything, but she doesn't have to. Because the words echo within her pupil. And Santana's world begins to cut itself away. Clutching the blanket tight to her chest, Brittany curls her fingers around Santana's bicep, still not moving from behind her. He can't remove her. He _can't_.

An ache begins to throb in Santana's diaphragm, her lungs feeling punctured and battered. That _bastard_. Rage consumes her flesh, skin blazing with the color of fire, her eyes made that much darker by the patter of raindrops and the promise of an open palm.

"Brittany, I do not have patience for redundancies. Do _not_ waste my time." Simon moves towards them. The fingers around her bicep tighten and she can feel Brittany shrinking into her back.

"I'm sorry." Santana hears the whisper pressed between her shoulder blades. But she can't accept that. She can't. She'll die first. Like the rotten fruit of a tree, something shakes loose inside of her and Santana is submerged beneath a murky surface. (How much is sacrificed?)

Simon reaches by her, his fingers snaking through blonde tresses and pulling at their roots. Brittany pitches forward, letting out a small cry of pain, the sound shattering what little self control Santana was hanging onto.

Fingers like a wicked talon, she drives her hand towards Simon's trousers. The material of his suit is soft and rich, something no doubt custom tailored. (She'll have to remember to have her wardrobe replaced.) A lump bends against her palm, as her nails bite viciously into the flesh of his groin. She squeezes tightly, wrenching her wrist to the left, twisting his sensitive organ as far as she is able.

(How much is lost?)

"You _never_ should have come here," she snarls.

He exhales, bright blue veins popping along his temples, his eyes growing crazier. His teeth gnash, his grip on Brittany tightening in his pain. Santana revels in the way his breath groans out between his teeth. Like a high hiss, it drowns out the whirring of the fan blades and all she can breathe is his pain. He keels, his face resting against her shoulder before she bucks it against his nose, hoping it's hard enough to break it (it's not). He whips his head back. Heat begins to seep along her fingertips and she wonders, _is he bleeding_?

"Tell me," Santana hisses. "Do you remember what fish like best?"

And he's smiling.

Santana twists harder, her other hand reaching for his neck. _It's been a couple months, but you never forget how to break a man's neck. _The oblique arch of her hand crushes into his windpipe. _You never forget how much pressure_. Brittany's fingers rake into her back, nails biting into her exposed flesh. _You never forget the light as it fades_. Her fingers press into his jugular and Santana can feel the hammer of his heart through her fingertips. She squeezes tighter.

But in her blind rage, she forgets. A fist crashes into the side of her skull, her ear buzzing. Shaking her head, Santana tries to orient herself, but is delivered another blow. Heat blooms along her temple, her vision shaking. Her grip upon his throat slackens, but she doesn't miss the way it vibrates with warbled laughter. A high, piercing whine shreds through her eardrums.

"What beautiful hands, Santana," he rasps. "Be sure to say hello." Bile is rushing up her throat, burning away the words she so desperately wants to scream. (But they're forgotten—forgotten because she can't remember. All she remembers is blue eyes and golden hair and that erases all the words.)

Another shattering blow and her world goes black.

* * *

**October 4, 1941**

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sam is sitting upon his same old leather couch, leg crossed over his knee. He lounges, but he doesn't relax. How can he relax when she's pacing a hole straight through his floor? She hasn't much spoken. For the few times he's seen her, Sam always figured her to be put together. Perhaps vulnerable, perhaps scared, but still strong enough to deal with the obstacles life has to give.

Jesse said he couldn't deal with her—didn't even see her. If he thinks too much about it, there was something trembling beneath his voice. A little bit of fear, perhaps. Why, what could she do to him? It's not like he had anything to do with this. (And Santana thinks Sam is the most naïve person, removed and distant from the truths that write along through peeling paint and grey cinderblocks.)

But she paces.

Back and forth.

Her hands wind around each other, clenching at the base of her stomach, before she tears them apart again, the idle fingertips of her right hand gently brushing over her knuckles. They aren't getting anywhere.

And like clockwork, she sits down in the chair opposite his couch, dark eyes bouncing all over the room as if searching. As if lost. But Sam knows she'll never find it—whatever it is she seeks. Her teeth worry her bottom lip, the skin there cracked and caked with blood long since dried. Santana's eyes are tired, but not dull. (Never dull.) He would expect them to be brimming with emotion, to be telling him something other than _nothing_.

But that's just it.

Santana Lopez sits across from him, her fingers worrying over her knuckles, chewed lips forming unspoken words and there is nothing in her eyes. It makes him nervous. Like she's reading every inch of him and seeing the parts that he doesn't want her to see. The muscle along his jaw gives a light spasm before he clears his throat and looks back down at the papers strewn across the couch next to him.

Sam doesn't much care for the traditional methods (he finds them archaic and rather cruel) but he doesn't really know what else to do. He twirls his pen lightly in his hand, the light _click, click, click_ adding to the rhythm of the room. The rustle of clothing grates like sandpaper and Santana is standing again, moving from right to left, a dark shadow cast across her brow.

"Santana—"

"What the fuck do you know, pillow lips?" she snaps. She runs her fingers over her knuckles one more time. The skin there is purple and cracked, broken blood vessels beating up to the surface to color. (A reminder, a trophy, a keepsake of _Brittany_.) She must have gotten her good.

"Why don't you talk about it?"

"Talking never solves anything," she replies. She stops dead in her tracks, those cool eyes sweeping over him once. A shudder shakes his body, starting at the base of his spine and working its way up. There is a chasm there, ripping itself open and bleeding with blackness all-consuming. Sam lets his gaze fall to his papers again. Black ink smudges with his rickety writing and he finds Santana look up at him through the papers. He shuffles them away, clearing his throat.

"You have to give me something I can work with, Santana. You need to help me to help you." He's pulling out all the stops. All the things he ever learned. But her lips flicker up into a smile and she's leaning against the chair, her hands upon the corners, shoulders hunching forward. Perhaps it's a trick of the light, but Sam swears a shadow sits upon her back, fingers curling around her throat, tongue whipping itself into her ear. Black tresses fall over her shoulder, the raven silk fluttering with the beat of an electric fan.

Goosebumps rise along his arms.

"You know Colt, don't you?"

"You mean Simon?"

"Smith and Wesson, perhaps? Maybe you know Winchester, too."

"Santana, wha—"

"Beretta, then?"

"Those are guns."

"Oh, are you a detective now? Have you been taking lessons from Puck?" Her left index finger twitches, running along a snag in the chairs seam. Sam clears his throat, shaking his head.

"I don't understand what you're saying."

"Why can't you figure it out, _Doctor_ Evans, isn't that what they pay you for?" Her words are like snakes, dripping venom from her tongue and scorching craters within his ears.

"If you don't give me anything to work with, how am I supposed to start helping you?" White breaks through the purple dashed across her knuckles and Sam doesn't like the way she's gripping the chair. Heart pounding wildly in his chest, he's suddenly all too aware of all the sharp and dangerous things he's certain a woman of her caliber could use to inflict bodily harm.

But would she hurt him?

His inability to answer that question with certainty has his leg bouncing.

"I'm not the one you should have been _helping_." A threat lingers between them, her fingers working more furiously at the tear in the chair's fabric. Cool eyes continue to watch. The words catch in Sam's throat, a thin sheen of sweat developing down his spine. He twirls the pen again, raking his mind for an answer. Any sort of answer.

"Oh?" he finally manages to press out. It's unimpressive and noncommital, but at least it's something. Maybe it'll get her talking, at least. (But she doesn't want to talk, she wants to act and the pain of sitting by and watching the clouds pass in the sky is eating at her.)

"Don't pretend like you don't know—perhaps I shouldn't have placed my faith in your intelligence."

"You can snap at me all you want, Santana, but that doesn't address what's happening." Her fingers still, a loose thread caught between them. She slowly begins to pull.

"Maybe instead of beating your jollies off, you should have done your _fucking job_."

"Why are you so angry with me?"

"Because you let him _take her_!" She screams. Her fingers tear away, the thread coming loose with a startling snap, the long red thread twined between her fingers. Sam grips the edge of the couch tightly, sweat pooling in his hands, slick against the expanse of the leather. Clearing his throat, he rubs them against the front of his shirt before sitting up straighter.

If this were anyone else, he would stand and embrace them. (Brittany once told him that his hugs were like cotton.)

But this is Santana Lopez.

(She'll watch the world burn.)

"S-Simon is her husband, Santana. She never truly belonged here, she should be with her family."

"Did your mother have syphilis when she had you or something? You are dafter than I thought!"

"Brit—"

"Don't you _dare_ say her name." Santana moves around the edge of the chair, her finger pointed towards him. He can feel it jabbing into his chest before it lands there, a phantom pain, and he wonders if she can feel the hammering of his heart.

"What did—"

"You hide behind your papers and assess the masses and for what?" She jabs her finger hard into his chest. "To place unwanted women within boxes ready to be sorted and _burned_?"

"Santana, I understand that you're upset, but—"

"Upset?" Biting laughter rips from her throat, the bitterness so dark he can taste it splashing across his tongue. Sam shifts uncomfortably. "Oh, Trouty, you think I'm upset?" A cruel smirk rips along the length of her mouth, twisting her beautiful features into something less than human. "No, no, no, I was upset when I stubbed my toe on the corner of my bed this morning. I was upset when Rachel didn't let me finish what I had intended—"

"Why don't we talk about that?" Sam interjects. He works hard to keep his voice controlled, to keep the anxiety out. He hopes it works. (It doesn't.)

"Don't you interrupt me, _Doctor_." Calmly, Santana leans down so their faces are even, her back a perfect plane, rough and ridged. Her fingers burn scorch marks through his clothing and Sam shifts again. He could call for Puck, but—no. Isn't this why she's here? To talk about what happened?

He adopts his easy smile (she thinks it's goofy) and nods his head. But dark eyes still pierce and he knows she's watching the doubts and fears pumping through his veins. She's reading them like a list and Sam feels like the roles have reversed. What happened to change her so much? What happened?

Was it Brittany?

Could she have done this?

Or has Santana always been this way?

"I'm not upset." She leans in closer. "I'm _murderous_."

"Why don't we—"

"She _trusted _you, only God knows why, and you were too busy sucking off St. James to actually care about her." Desperation. It's the first real emotion to ring within the hollow of her irises and Sam feels it invading every sense of him. It crackles along his nerve endings, tasting like copper on the tip of his tongue.

"I tried to protect her!" His own anger begins to boil. What right did she have to judge him?

"Oh my God," she snorts, laughter shaking her chest. "You _love_ her."

"What?"

(How much magma does it take to kill a man?)

"You fucking _love her_." That vicious stare levels at him, and Sam can feel knives dragging across his flesh.

"That would be highly unprofessional, I would never stoop to that level."

"Don't think I'm stupid enough to fall for your mind games, because two can play at that game, and I promise you, you won't like it when I start winning." Grinding the tip of her finger into his chest, he presses himself deeper within the cushions, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure. Sam stares hard at her.

"You think I'm playing a game?" He works to conceal his frustration, but there's something about the way she keeps addressing him. Something about the way her finger beats with the thump of his heart.

"You _fucking moron_, if you wanted to protect her, you would have kept her _here_."

"Santana, I need for you to talk about what happened this _morning_." He knew this was going to be difficult, but he didn't think it would be this difficult.

"Do you know what Simon does to her, Sam?" It's the first time she's used his name, her smoky voice lifting through the syllables like music. "How can you love her without knowing what he does to her? How can you say he's her family when you haven't _seen_ it? How could you _let her leave_." (She remembers scars writ across beautiful flesh and the mending of a broken bone. Santana's fingers ache.)

"They were killing her in here!" Dark eyes read across his face, Santana's lips pulling down into a twisted frown.

"What do you mean." It's not a question, but a statement. His tongue feels like cotton. He really shouldn't be discussing this with her.

"What about Terri, Santana. What happened with Terri?" Cutting his eyes away, he can feel her stare burning into the side of his face. He carefully picks up his papers, stacking them neatly on top of one another. His breath stutters in his chest. How could Brittany love this woman? How could _she_ be a star man when all he sees is a pit of vipers?

The copper of the telescope glints brightly under the artificial light.

"We aren't talking about Terri."

"Yes," he closes his hand around her wrist and pushes her back. "We are." With the force of a ball peen hammer, his words slap against her face. And she takes a step back. The cool guardedness that had been forced down is thrown back up, her eyes glazing as she crosses her arms in front of her chest.

Santana resumes pacing, her eyes staring out the window as if she wants to jump. (She probably wouldn't die, but she doesn't think the landing would leave her totally unscathed either.)

With the distance maintained between them again, Sam lets out a long, silent sigh, the tension that had coiled tightly around the base of his skull rapidly diminishing. How was he supposed to break through to her? She really needs to talk about this before Sue storms the place and throws her into one of those cells. (Somewhere, a happy light buzzes and Santana destroys the bulb.)

Again, like clockwork, Santana sits down in the chair opposite, her fingers running over the smooth curve of her knuckles. The coloring is hardly noticeable, but the scrape where teeth had bit against flesh? That stands out like an angry, red beacon.

"Santana, do you know what they do to violent patients?" He uncrosses his legs, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers clasped in front of his face.

"Do you think death scares me?"

"No, I don't." And that's what concerns him the most. Another silence passes between them. As if that's his answer. The second hand of a clock ticks by, carving away the time, the only reminder that it does not stand still. "Terri is a white woman."

"I'm so glad you noticed, what, did you want to fuck her too?"

He ignores the jab, though Sam is hard pressed to admit that it doesn't irritate him. "It doesn't matter whose daughter you are or which family you belong to in a court of law. You can't keep assaulting her."

(She remembers nothing but tittering words and her fist curving around the soft flesh of a face and hoping her jaw shatters.)

"You think I care about that?"

"No—but you should."

"Oh don't be so melodramatic," she sneers, eyes rolling.

"If you care about _her_, Santana, then you need to get your act together." Under normal circumstances, Sam would never be so forceful, personal or blunt with a patient. But Santana doesn't understand anything else. They're playing poker and he's about to lose unless he does something drastic. But how is he supposed to make her see reason when all she sees is red? He's so deep in his thoughts that he nearly misses the way Santana's face falls into an unreadable expression. It's a split second before it's washed away. And once again she is an iron maiden.

"We line the pockets of most judges. Money speaks louder than justice, unfortunately." Her fingers press experimentally along the jagged ridge carved along her knuckles. He expects it smarts, but no pain leaps to her face.

"Have you heard of a leucotomy?"

She raises an eyebrow, her finger twitching. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"Because that's what's going to happen to you if you can't play nice with the other patients, Santana." Fire licks behind Sam's eyes, his throat burning. "Jesse has already started talking about it. He wants to book the surgery for—"

"Wait, stop. Surgery?" And for the first time since he started talking, Sam knows he has her rapt attention.

"Yes, surgery. A leucotomy, while they have had varying degrees of success, is a somewhat new procedure thought to cure…" he trails off before motioning towards her.

"_Say it_. I want to hear you _say it_." The shadow on her shoulders roils about, the sudden smell of rubbing alcohol stinging his eyes. He shakes his head trying to clear the cobwebs.

"It's thought to cure a lot of things."

"And I need to be _cured_?" She spits the word like it has a bad taste. Her arms fold tighter over her stomach. (But how can something so right be so wrong?)

"_Santana_," Sam sighs, his eyes closing for just a brief moment before snapping back upon her. "It doesn't matter what _I_ think. If you don't stop punching Terri Scheuster in the face and breaking her fingers, you'll never get Bri—_her_ back." The way she had talked about Santana still stings, but there's something intrinsic about them. Something inevitable and no matter how much he wishes it was another way, Sam knows it never will be.

(The affirmation that Brittany is hers has her heart twisting nearly in two. It gives a tug and she looks out the window, dark eyes searching the broken horizon for blue eyes and blonde hair.)

"I'll always get Brittany back."

"They will drill the '_you'_ straight out of your head. Until all you can do is sit in a chair and drool all over yourself. Because that's what a leucotomy is—that's what it will do." A long stretch of silence passes between them, his words hanging like a ready guillotine. Santana remains unreadable, the cool corridors of her eyes tightening.

"They'll have to kill me before I let that happen." There is certainty wavering, Santana's brow knitting up into a concerned line. She wants to think he's lying, but she knows he isn't. The realization slowly dawns upon her and Sam lets out a long sigh.

"Then you need to stop hitting people and start making progress. Jesse has already done the paper work for the operation." Sam points down to the papers neatly stacked next to him. She follows his finger, the muscles in her throat moving. Black ink blotches glare up at them, and a shiver rakes through his body.

_Tick, tick, tick_.

Sam's not sure how many seconds pass before she looks back up at him. Santana's not sick. He could never sign off on these papers. But, unfortunately, not everyone is as forward thinking as him. Lips twisting into a frown, he waits for her to say anything, if she will say anything at all.

He needs for her to understand.

(Because nobody else can save _her_.)

"I'll _always _get Brittany back, Dr. Evans. Please don't forget that."

* * *

**October 6, 1941**

The aroma of baking honey-glazed ham clings to the thick, maroon drapes—Brittany would call them red, but he doesn't like that. The soft velvet slips beneath her hand, the heavy material pulled along her whim. Pots beat against polished counter tops, the chaos of a kitchen hard at work (behind closed doors) clamoring to get ready. She likens it to music, the beat of feet and whoosh of water woven all together in a tight string along a staff.

How long has it been?

Brittany takes a deep breath, the fit of her dress pressing hard against her stomach—but he had insisted. She lets the drapes fall back against themselves. (She's certain that they lead only to more drapes, anyway.) Pain spiders along her ribs as she twists in the uncomfortable garment, her teeth clenching tightly in response. What is this? The 1930s?

A dinner, he had proposed, for her safe return.

But she knows what this is. Brittany pulls at the annoying cuffs of her dress, the lace around her neck high and choking (after all he couldn't be showing everything off). She tugs on it, grimacing, but it doesn't give or budge. Instead, it stays steadfast, constricting her throat and hiding the bruises.

Because there have been bruises.

Angry yellow bruises.

"Don't pick at it," Quinn chides. She sits in a chair in the corner of the room, the high plush back reminding her of the arches of a grand theatre. And Brittany thinks that Quinn looks like a queen, a glass of amber liquid in her palm and a fake smile plastered upon her face to appease. She's refilled it twice already, Brittany knows. And she can smell the brandy from ten feet away—it drifts through the room, staining everything it touches. She feels like yellow wallpaper, cracked and peeling along the edges, hiding another world that is matted and eaten beneath the surface.

Brittany doesn't reply, but instead tugs at the material one more time. She hasn't been much for speaking the past couple of days, but who can really blame her. Quinn stares down into her glass, her lips twisting into a brief frown before her smile returns. Brittany watches her out of the corner of her eye, heart hammering madly in her chest. (And somewhere, Santana is holding her hand and whispering soft words into her ear and telling her she loves her a thousand times.)

Is this what Caesar felt?

Steel bites between her ribs, the tightness of her dress staunching the blood she's certain is pooling. They're all dolls in a house too big, with people (fake and imaginary) running within the halls. She doesn't feel real, as if she's walking on clouds instead of a floor, like the world has opened itself up and swallowed. There is nothing left but lingering presses and the burn set deep within her lips and a fear that grips her by the throat.

_I will kill her, make no mistake_.

He doesn't like it when she stares, he says that her eyes are too dull. And maybe they are, but that's only because she left them painted within a wall above melted lips, twisting into a watermarked face that dribbles. Brittany stares down at her hands, her knuckles lightly dusted with bruises, her joints aching. He came for her. He finally came for her. And she's in a house with fine things and a ring caged around her finger and for what?

Her stomach sinks.

She's in a house with people and things but Polaris no longer shines. Because he's hidden behind the clouds and the drapes and the endless corridors that run like horizons, stretching forever. Her daddy's face is tight, smile stretched thin across his lips and she wishes she could see the Northern Lights there, like she once used to, but instead is only met with what she feels like the ocean would be like.

And for the first time, Brittany understands. "Is this what it's like to live under the sea?" She asks softly, but she already knows her answer. Quinn stares down into her glass, her warped reflection a refraction of what used to be. She swallows her fears within the brandy and shakes her head, disregarding the question as something silly and inane.

With people moving like tides, curling around her ankles, Brittany finds herself lost. She's drowning and thinking of dark eyes meant only for her. Because so long as they're hers, it will always be enough. Santana will always be enough. She presses her fingers lightly to her lips and remembers shattered orchids and the must of a yellow greenhouse.

Her eyes drift closed, phantom arms wrapping around her waist, a chin at her shoulder. She can almost smell her. But she's safe. She's safe. Because Brittany is here and Santana is there where no one can get to her. _But that's not true and you know it._ Blue eyes snap open and she stares at the far doors, the ones that lead to the library. They stand secured, the tall oak frames ageless and immortal. He's playing his games, with horses and money and men in dark suits beyond there. And talking about what is to become and what is not.

She wonders how one man can hold the world in the palm of his hand?

(The answer is: he can't.)

She tugs at her dress again.

"Sugar," Quinn sighs.

"I'm in a house," she replies. Perturbed, Quinn raises an eyebrow, gently setting her glass down upon the end table. (The way blue eyes have dulled cut her deeper than any knife and Quinn feels like she very well might die.)

"Y...Yes?" She stands, smoothing her hands over the front of her dress before crossing the distance between herself and Brittany.

"I'm in a house but I'm not at home." The words close in tight around her throat and draw the empty abyss in her chest wider, the blackness unending and bottomless. Her heart gives a tug somewhere and Brittany can feel the beat of a different pulse. She forces a twisted smile upon her face. What is she supposed to do? How is she supposed to overcome this?

"Oh, Sugar," Quinn sighs before wrapping her arms around her shoulders. "It'll just take some getting used to. But at least you're..." she trails off.

She can't say it because she knows it's not true. That it will never be true, no matter what happens.

"How many stars do you think there are in the sky?" Brittany glances at the drapes again and wishes for them to be opened. She's certain that it would be a beautiful night. At least nobody can cage the canvas of the moon.

"I..." Quinn narrows her eyes, brow knit in confusion. (She'll never get used to the way Brittany flows seamlessly from topic to topic as if it's nothing at all.) "Billions, I would guess. Why do you want to know?"

"There are places like ours—exactly like ours—that run side by side with each other, I think," she begins. She tugs at the drapes again. "And maybe things are different. Do you think things could be different?"

"I'm afraid you've gone and lost me, Brittany," Quinn admits. She offers her a sympathetic smile before shrugging her shoulders.

"Oh, I read it in a book once. Or maybe in a dream—well, I mean, I had a dream about it, not to say that I read it in a dream I once had. I guess that's a possibility, but I can't exactly be too certain. I just get the feeling that there is something that could be different—do you remember what they used to say about the Faerie Queen?" Like rapid fire, her words come tumbling out. She can't cry because the reservoirs have long gone dry.

"Sugar, you aren't making any sense."

_Good_, she thinks. (Scare them with words and they'll lock you away forever.) She shrugs, but there is no warmth hidden behind the fold of her lips. The brilliance mapped across her face is diluted and dead, the invisible scars of wretchedness creeping along the bridge of her nose.

"Maybe you just don't understand," she replies softly. Something deep and striking flashes through Quinn's eyes and Brittany regrets the words immediately. There is guilt, the reminder of her betrayal. Because how is she expected to look upon her most trusted friend now without feeling the empty caresses of the woman she's now lost.

Brittany's ears ring.

The world is moving all about her and nothing is making any sense. She has been ripped from a part of herself and she doesn't know how to repair it. Because she's Brittany and there's Santana—the beat of a heart over miles away and she can still feel it fluttering faintly within the cavity of her chest. Does it sit in tandem? (Did the sun ever stop loving the darkness?)

"Well then explain it to me," Quinn tries.

"It's not something to be explained." Brittany moves by, taking care to avoid contact with her. Quinn reaches her hand out after her, an unreadable expression dashing her face. There is a frigid edge to her words that stab them through with icicle points.

"Why not?" Quinn replies, trying to keep the tension out of her voice. (Because if Brittany denies her now, she'll never claw her way out ever again.) She holds her breath.

"Either you get it or you don't." She's standing at the head of the table, her fingers gently brushing over the place settings, the polished silver smudging with all that is Brittany. He won't like that, but he doesn't like a lot of things. A surreptitious glance is thrown back to the closed door, muffled voices drifting between the cracks adding a dissonance to the music surrounding her.

She stares down at the white china and sees nothing. Because it's not yellow or magenta and there is no love lost there. It's an empty color that people perceive as purity but Brittany understands. Nothing so empty can be pure. (And she briefly wonders after a red dress and a yellow blouse and how exactly the buttons are sewn.)

"But everything can be explained," Quinn starts, the tension teasing along the edges of her syllables.

"Not everything." The poignant twist to her words has Quinn in shambles and somewhere, Brittany is crying. But not the woman standing by the large oak chair, a hand upon polished silver with eyes so dull they fade into the pupil. A haunting smile twists along her lips, a lie made to satiate and a reminder of raven hair and dark eyes.

"Brittany, wh—"

"Do you think we'll have carrots with dinner tonight?" she interrupts. Quinn's voice stops dead in her throat.

"Please, _talk_ to me."

"Do you think a potato feels when it's being boiled? I wouldn't want anything so delicious to hurt." Slowly, she picks up a spoon, inspecting it closely for flaws along the edge. She smiles (a genuine smile) when she finds the little dip along the edge. (A universe is reflected upside down and backwards within the ladle of a spoon and there are no answers to the questions that have a blue-eyed angel reeling.)

The morbidity of the statement is accented by the innocence. Quinn shifts uncomfortably, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. What exactly is she supposed to say? What is expected and what is not, it's something she's always been adept at figuring out, but now, when it matters, Quinn finds herself at a loss.

The darkness of the room swills about them, and Brittany feels as if she's caught within a crystal glass. Her lungs begin to burn with words she wishes to scream, but there is no escape from her cut box. She rips her eyes away from the spoon, not liking what she has to see because there are too many eyes and too many faces, unfamiliar and rotten within the color of her iris. She places the utensil back down and sets her smile back to Quinn. The hairs on the back of her neck rise.

_Real_. She reminds herself over and over and over again, until it's all she can think. Because dreams do not bruise the flesh or match the way he smiles. Dreams cannot harm or twist inside of the stomach, turning your insides to the spires of an obsidian castle made only for the ravens of tomorrow to sit and perch.

A shadow sits in the corner of the room, the wicked white of teeth showing, eyes burning with a flame bright. He's there and will always be there, but she passes him off as another watchful observer. A watcher of worlds, with jaws so large to swallow the whole of man and he loves her the most. (Not real.)

"I'm sorry," Quinn finally says, her voice strained and nasally. "It _wasn't_ me, Brittany."

Her smile stays firm. A long stretch of silence passes between them, Brittany moving over to stand by one of his many paintings. There is a face concealed within the black expanse of canvas with a smile as empty as her own and she suddenly knows what it feels. Her finger tips graze against the paint, the roughness dipping into the valleys of her fingers and she knows what to say.

"I know," she breathes. And Quinn relaxes, her breath expelling from her chest slowly. She's gained one thing back and the relief hits her like a train, steam fogging her mind. Or maybe it's the brandy. "But that doesn't mean you'll ever understand."

_Real_.

"Then ex—"

The door to the library slides itself open and he steps over the threshold, his gleaming smile cool like she thinks a cat's would be. Except when they smile, they purr and Simon does no such things. It's predatory, his gaze, as it sweeps across the room, his arms opening wide to receive Brittany. She recoils back away from him, the smell of his hair product tainting and mixing with the stained brandy.

"Sugarpie," he sings. The lump in his throat moves with the motions, the skin around his neck soft and freshly shaven. She can still smell the after shave, but it does not give her comfort.

She nods her head in affirmation, that same dead smile falling to her lips, eyes drifting down to the floor. Immediately, she moves to stand by his side, his hand looping around her waist. It rests there, burning straight to the fibers of her soul and Brittany feels violated. They twitch against her, her senses branching out of her like strings. And she's a marionette, a beautiful face being pulled by the master. He smiles at her face, a reflection of the cool hatred burning inside of him, and her stomach sinks.

Because she knows something is about ready to happen. The static crawls along her arms, tugging at her like a phantom gunshot.

The figure in the corner smirks and laughs a silent laugh, writing her blood against the walls of an old home. And his name is Simon, a tongue like the devil with fingers like talons and something inhumane. (Real? Or not real?) He has her heart in his pocket and he's squeezing. Breath catching in her throat, Brittany looks back at the painting and feels ice traveling through her veins.

_He'll always be._

(Because with nothing comes something and there's no way to change.)

A cycle has started. He presses his lips against the side of her face and she feels dirty. They're dry and prickle along her skin, infecting every avenue that is meant only for Santana. She'd push him away, but she cannot. She twirls a ring upon her finger. It leaves a green mark.

"How would you like to see the stars tonight?" he asks, motioning towards the large window. Slowly, she blinks, the sound of shuffling feet drawing her attention to the three large men in suits that have emerged from the library as well. Is it some sort of code, she wonders. For them to all wear the same type of suit? She's never seen them wear anything else. Perhaps they should try to wear more normal clothes if they want to fit in.

Or is the point for them to stand out?

They aren't very good bodyguards if everyone knows they're there, that's for sure.

"I see the stars every night," she replies nonchalantly, only giving half a mind to what he is saying. His grip tightens along her hip, a small warning squeeze before he relents. He doesn't need to say anything. He never has. She glances at him and finds herself being consumed by a blackened rage.

"I heard word that they'll be falling tonight."

"The stars can't fall." She flicks her eyes over to Quinn, hoping that she holds reassurance, but hazel eyes are still locked upon the rug. Her glass is in her hand again, her teeth worrying her lip, eyebrows knit.

"Certainly they can!" Simon barks, pulling her in closer to his side.

"But what about the carrots?" They shouldn't waste food. And people are going to be showing up soon, aren't they? A silent exchange is passed between Simon and Quinn, whose sudden interest in the conversation has Brittany nervous. She's missing something, she just knows it.

"The carrots will be here when we return, come. I just want to take my _wife_ out before our supper, is that too much to ask?" He's motioning towards the foyer door and Brittany knows she has no right to refuse.

(A palm presses into the hollow of her throat, a voice belonging to only the dark side of the moon piercing her eardrums.)

"How many stars do you think there are in the ocean," she asks softly. Taking this as an affirmation, he begins to lead her towards the door. She doesn't miss the way he exchanges a glance with the three men, a small curt nod. One that says everything and anything. But she's never been good at telling which from what.

"There aren't any stars in the ocean," Simon laughs, waving away her question. "Don't be stupid, sugarpie."

But she knows what Santana would have said. And the idea makes her smile drop. How long can she do this for?

Brittany doesn't say anything, heat blooming beneath her flesh, embarrassment creeping along her neck. She hates the way that he doesn't understand or the way he only pretends to see. She hates the way Quinn tries to move forward but he holds his palm out, that same smile upon his lips as he says "Not tonight, Q. Why don't you make yourself useful and prepare for our guests. We won't be long."

But most of all, she hates the way the white plates stare up in a perfect row upon the table, watching her as she disappears around the corner of the door, her shoes clicking lightly against the marble floor. They are empty and nothing and she feels herself shattered like a thousand pieces of porcelain. Her heart continues to beat to the rhythm of _Santana_.

Who's going to smile at her now?

Who's going to love her now.

They're standing at the car's door before she even recognizes that she is outside. He's placed a jacket around her shoulders, the fine furs tickling her skin. She's always hated these things, since she feels like a murderer walking in another woman's skin. But he insists and when he insists, he gets what he wants. Because Simon holds the world in the palm of his hand.

"How do you keep hold of it?" she asks before she can stop herself. He shrugs his shoulders, quirking an eyebrow. Puzzling out her question, he opens the door to her, the dark portal to another world and Brittany can feel the tides of red beginning to tug at her ankles.

_Not real_.

She stares into the dark car, the engine rattling and waiting to deliver them to a destination. A destination unknown. That might have thrilled her at one point in time, but all she can remember is the way Santana's naked form had curled around her own and the way her fingers had traveled through her flesh and _loved her_. And now the unknown could mean anything.

"I just do, sugarpie," he finally replies, motioning towards the door. Impatience is beginning to crop up, but he allows her to look at the stars once before she slips her hand into his and slides into the seat.

The clouds are thick as smoke and not a single light beacons.

"Real," she whispers.

Her mouth runs dry.


End file.
